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PRINCE  ZIL 

-AH 

/) 

(LE  "PRINCE  Z1LAI 

By   JULES    CLAR 

ETIE 

Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 

Wilh   a  Preface  by  Q^fS^Cl^ 
SONVILLE,  of  the  French  Academy 
IlIurtr.tifnJM  fc£6H&&  &Mjft 

and 
y  T^obert  Kastor 

NEW    YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 

1908 

PRINCE  Z1LAH 

(LE  'PRINCE  ZILAH) 
By  JULES    CLARETIE 

Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 

With  a  Preface  by  COMTE    d'HAUS- 
SONVILLE,  of  the  French  Academy,  and 
Illustrations  by  HERMAN  ROUNTREE 

NEW    YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 

1908 

;  t    .''•>•"•    /',  h  ,''•  '•"     '  '•" 

COPYRIGHT,    1905 

BY 
ROBERT    ARNOT 


PC 


JULES  CLARETIE 

LSfcNE  ARNAUD  CLARETIE  (com- 
monly called  Jules),  was  born  on 
December  3,  1840,  at  Limoges,  the  pic- 
turesque and  smiling  capital  of  Li- 
mousin. He  has  been  rightly  called 
the  "Roi  de  la  Chronique"  and  the 
"Themistocle  de  la  Litterature  Con- 
temporaine."  In  fact,  he  has  written, 
since  early  youth,  romances,  drama,  history,  novels, 
tales,  chronicles,  dramatic  criticism,  literary  criticism, 
military  correspondence,  virtually  everything!  He  was 
elected  to  the  French  Academy  in  1888. 

Claretie  was  educated  at  the  Lycee  Bonaparte,  and 
was  destined  for  a  commercial  career.  He  entered  a 
business-house  as  bookkeeper,  but  was  at  the  same  time 
contributing  already  to  newspapers  and  reviews.  In 
:  1862  we  find  him  writing  for  the  Diogene;  under  the 
pseudonym,  "Olivier  de  Jalin,"  he  sends  articles  to  La 
France;  his  nom-de-plume  in  U  Illustration  is  "Perdi- 
can";  he  also  contributes  to  the  Figaro,  U  Independence 
Beige,  Opinion  Nationale  (1867-1872) ;  he  signs  articles 
in  the  Rappel  as  "Candide";  in  short,  his  fecundity  in 
this  field  of  literature  is  very  great.  He  is  to-day  a 
most  popular  journalist  and  writes  for  the  Presse,  Petit 
Journal,  Temps,  and  others.  He  has  not  succeeded  as 


PREFACE 

a  politician.  Under  the  second  Empire  he  was  often 
in  collision  with  the  Government;  in  1857  he  was  sen- 
tenced to  pay  a  fine  of  i  ,000  francs,  which  was  a  splendid 
investment ;  more  than  once  lectures  to  be  given  by  him 
were  prohibited  (1865-1868);  in  1871  he  was  an  unsuc- 
cessful candidate  for  L'Assemblee  Nationale,  both 
for  La  Haute  Vienne  and  La  Seine.  Since  that  time 
he  has  not  taken  any  active  part  in  politics.  Perhaps 
we  should  also  mention  that  as  a  friend  of  Victor  Noir 
he  was  called  as  a  witness  in  the  process  against  Peter 
Bonaparte ;  and  that  as  administrator  of  the  Comedie 
Francaise  he  directed,  in  1899,  an  open  letter  to  the 
"President  and  Members  of  the  Court  Martial  trying 
Captain  Dreyfus"  at  Rennes,  advocating  the  latter's 
acquittal.  So  much  about  Claretie  as  a  politician! 

The  number  of  volumes  and  essays  written  by  Jules 
Claretie  surpasses  imagination,  and  it  is,  therefore,  al- 
most impossible  to  give  a  complete  list.  As  a  historian 
he  has  selected  mostly  revolutionary  subjects.  The 
titles  of  some  of  his  prominent  works  in  this  field  are: 
Les  Dernier s  Montagnards  (1867);  Histoire  de  la  Revo- 
lution de  1870-71  (second  edition,  1875,  5  vols.);  La 
France  Envahie  (1871);  Le  Champ  de  Bataille  de  Sedan 
(1871) ;  Paris  assiege  and  Les  Prussians  chez  eux  (1872) ; 
Cinq  Ans  apres,  LJ  Alsace  et  la  Lorraine  depuis  VAn- 
nexion  (1876);  La  Guerre  Nationale  1870-1871,  etc., 
most  of  them  in  the  hostile,  anti-German  vein,  natural 
to  a  "Chauvinist";  Ruines  et  Fantomes  (1873).  Les 
Femmes  de  la  Revolution  (1898)  contains  a  great  number 
of  portraits,  studies,  and  criticisms,  partly  belonging  to 
political,  partly  to  literary,  history.  To  the  same  category 

[vi] 


PREFACE 

belong:  Moliere,  sa  Vie  et  ses  (Euvres  (1873);  Peintres  et 
Sculpteurs  Contemporains,  and  T.  B.  Carpeaux  (1875); 
UArt  et  les  Artistes  Contemporains  (1876),  and  others. 
Quite  different  from  the  above,  and  in  another  phase  of 
thought,  are:  Voyages  <Tun  Parisien  (1865);  Journees 
de  Voyage  en  Espagne  et  France  (1870);  Journees  de 
Vacances  (1887) ;  and  others. 

It  is,  however,  as  a  novelist  that  the  fame  of  Claretie 
will  endure.  He  has  followed  the  footsteps  of  George 
Sand  and  of  Balzac.  He  belongs  to  the  school  of  "Im- 
pressionists," and,  although  he  has  a  liking  for  excep- 
tional situations,  wherefrom  humanity  does  not  always 
issue  without  serious  blotches,  he  yet  is  free  from  pessi- 
mism. He  has  no  nervous  disorder,  no  "brain  fag,"  he 
is  no  pagan,  not  even  a  non-believer,  and  has  happily 
preserved  his  wholesomeness  of  thought ;  he  is  averse  to 
exotic  ideas,  extravagant  depiction,  and  inflammatory 
language.  His  novels  and  tales  contain  the  essential 
qualities  which  attract  and  retain  the  reader.  Some  of 
his  works  in  chronological  order,  omitting  two  or  three 
novels,  written  when  only  twenty  or  twenty-one  years 
old,  are:  Pierrille,  Histoirede  Village  (1863);  Mademoi- 
selle Cache-mire  (1867);  Un  Assassin,  also  known  under 
the  title  Robert  Burnt  (1867);  Madeleine  Berlin,  replete 
with  moderated  sentiment,  tender  passion,  and  exquisite 
scenes  of  social  life  (1868);  Les  Muscadins  (1874,  2 
vols.) ;  Le  Train  No.  17  (1877) ;  La  Maison  Vide  (1878) ; 
Le  Troisieme  dessous  (1879);  La  Maitresse  (1880); 
Monsieur  le  Ministre  (1882);  Mceurs  du  Jour  (1883); 
Le  Prince  Zilah  (1884),  crowned  by  the  Academy  four 
years  before  he  was  elected;  Candidat!  (1887);  Puy- 

[vii] 


PREFACE 

joli  (1890);  U  Americaine  (1892);  La  Fr ontiere  (1894); 
Mariage  Manque  (1894);  Divette  (1896);  UAccusateur 
(1897),  and  others. 

It  is,  perhaps,  interesting  to  know  that  after  the  flight 
of  the  Imperial  family  from  the  Tuileries,  Jules  Claretie 
was  appointed  to  put  into  order  the  various  papers, 
documents,  and  letters  left  behind  in  great  chaos, 
and  to  publish  them,  if  advisable. 

Very  numerous  and  brilliant  have  also  been  the 
incursions  of  Jules  Claretie  into  the  theatrical  domain, 
though  he  is  a  better  novelist  than  playwright.  He 
was  appointed  director  of  the  Comedie  Francaise  in 
1885.  His  best  known  dramas  and  comedies  are:  La 
Famille  de  Gueux,  in  collaboration  with  Delia  Gattina 
(Ambigu,  1869);  Raymond  Lindey  (Menus  Plaisirs, 
1869,  forbidden  for  some  time  by  French  censorship); 
Les  Muscadins  (Theatre  Historique,  1874);  Un  Pere 
(with  Adrien  Decourcelle,  Gymnase,  1874);  Le  Regi- 
ment de  Champagne  (Theatre  Historique,  1877);  Mon- 
sieur le  Ministre,  together  with  Dumas  fits  and  Busnach 
(Gymnase,  1883);  and  Prince  Zilah  (Gymnase,  1885). 

Some  of  them,  as  will  be  noticed,  are  adapted  to 
the  stage  from  his  novels.  In  Le  Regiment  de  Cham- 
pagne, at  least,  he  has  written  a  little  melodramatically. 
But  thanks  to  the  battles,  fumes  of  powder,  muskets, 
and  cannons  upon  the  stage  the  descendants  of  Jean 
Chauvin  accept  it  with  frenetic  applause.  In  most  of  the 
plays,  however,  he  exhibits  a  rather  nervous  talent,  rich 
imagination,  and  uses  very  scintillating  and  picturesque 
language,  if  he  is  inclined  to  do  so — and  he  is  very 
often  inclined.  He  received  the  "Prix  Vitet"  in 

[viii] 


PREFACE 

1879  from  the  Academy  for  Le  Drapeau.  Despite 
our  unlimited  admiration  for  Claretie  the  journalist, 
Claretie  the  historian,  Claretie  the  dramatist,  and 
Claretie  the  art-critic,  we  think  his  novels  conserve  a 
precious  and  inexhaustible  mine  for  the  Faguets  and 
Lansons  of  the  twentieth  century,  who,  while  frequently 
utilizing  him  for  the  exemplification  of  the  art  of  fiction, 
will  salute  him  as  "Le  Roi  de  la  Romance." 


de  l'Acade"mie  Francaise. 


["1 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

THE  BETROTHAL  FETE i 

CHAPTER  II 
THE  BARONESS'S  MATCHMAKING 9 

CHAPTER  HI 
THE  STORY  OF  THE  ZILAHS 16 

CHAPTER  IV 
"WHEN  HUNGARY  is  FREE!" 23 

CHAPTER  V 
"MY  FATHER  WAS  A  RUSSIAN!" 29 

CHAPTER  VI 
A  GYPSY  PRINCESS  ; 40 

CHAPTER  Vn 
THE  STORY  OF  MARSA 47 

CHAPTER  VIII 
"HAVE  I  NO  RIGHT  TO  BE  HAPPY?"       ......     57 

CHAPTER  IX 
"O  LIBERTY!    O  LOVE!    THESE  Two  I  NEED!"  ...    68 

CHAPTER  X 
<(Js  FATE  so  JUST?"     ...........    75 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XI 

PAGE 

A  RIVER  FETE 83 

CHAPTER  XII 
A  DARK  PAGE 92 

CHAPTER  XIH 
"Mv  LETTERS  OR  MYSELF" 108 

CHAPTER  XIV 
"HAVE  I  THE  RIGHT  TO  LIE?" 116 

CHAPTER  XV 
"As  CLINGS  THE  LEAF  UNTO  THE  TREE" 128 

CHAPTER  XVI 
"!T  is  A  MAN  THEY  ARE  DEVOURING!" 138 

CHAPTER  XVH 
MARSA'S  GUARDIANS 142 

CHAPTER  XVm 
"THERE  is  NO  NEED  OF  ACCUSING  ANYONE"  ....  149 

CHAPTER  XLX 
"A  BEAUTIFUL  DREAM" 151 

CHAPTER  XX 
THE  BRIDAL  DAY 161 

CHAPTER  XXI 
"THE  TZIGANA  is  THE  MOST  LOVED  OF  ALL!"     ...  168 

CHAPTER  XXH 
A  DREAM  SHATTERED 174 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XXIH 

PAGE 

"THE  WORLD  HOLDS  BUT  ONE  FAIR  MAIDEN"      .     .     .184 

CHAPTER  XXIV 
A  LITTLE  PARISIAN  ROMANCE 192 

CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  HOME  OF  "PUCK" 206 

CHAPTER  XXVI 
"AM  I  AVENGED?" 224 

CHAPTER  XXVII 
"WHAT  MATTERS  IT  How  MUCH  WE  SUFFER?"    ...  236 

CHAPTER  XXVEH 
THE  STRICKEN  SOUL 238 

CHAPTER  XXIX 
"LET  THE  DEAD  PAST  BURY  ITS  DEAD" 253 

CHAPTER  XXX 
"To  SEEK  FORGETFULNESS " 264 

CHAPTER  XXXE 
"IF  MENKO  WERE  DEAD!" 274 

CHAPTER  XXXH 
THE  VALE  OF  VIOLETS 285 

CHAPTER  XXXHI 
THE  DUEL 292 

CHAPTER  XXXTV 
A  NEW  LIFE 30* 

[xiiij 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PACK 

Jules  Claretie  (portrait) Frontispiece 

"Now?    Now?"  demanded  Andras 66 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  hated  past  was  a  bad  dream.    .     .162 


XCUSE  me,  Monsieur,  but  pray  tell  me 
what  vessel  that  is  over  there." 

The  question  was  addressed  to  a 
small,  dark  man,  who,  leaning  upon  the 
parapet  of  the  Quai  des  Tuileries,  was 
rapidly  writing  in  a  note-book  with  a 
large  combination  pencil,  containing  a 
knife,  a  pen,  spare  leads,  and  a  paper- 
cutter — all  the  paraphernalia  of  a  reporter  accustomed 
to  the  expeditions  of  itinerant  journalism. 

When  he  had  filled,  in  his  running  hand,  a  leaf  of  the 
book,  the  little  man  tore  it  hastily  off,  and  extended  it  to 
a  boy  in  dark  blue  livery  with  silver  buttons,  bearing 
the  initial  of  the  newspaper,  UActualite;  and  then,  still 
continuing  to  write,  he  replied : 

"Prince  Andras  Zilah  is  giving  a  ]Ue  on  board  one 
of  the  boats  belonging  to  the  Compagnie  de  la  Seine." 
"A  fete?    Why?" 

"To  celebrate  his  approaching  marriage,  Monsieur." 
"Prince  Andras!    Ah!"  said  the  first  speaker,  as  if 
he  knew  the  name  well;  "Prince  Andras  is  to  be  mar- 
ried, is  he?    And  who  does  Prince  Andras  Zil" 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Zilah!    He  is  a  Hungarian,  Monsieur." 

The  reporter  appeared  to  be  in  a  hurry,  and,  handing 
another  leaf  to  the  boy,  he  said: 

"Wait  here  a  moment.  I  am  going  on  board,  and  I 
will  send  you  the  rest  of  the  list  of  guests  by  a  sailor. 
They  can  prepare  the  article  from  what  you  have,  and 
set  it  up  in  advance,  and  I  will  come  myself  to  the  office 
this  evening  and  make  the  necessary  additions." 

"Very  well,  Monsieur  Jacquemin." 

"And  don't  lose  any  of  the  leaves." 

"Oh,  Monsieur  Jacquemin !     I  never  lose  anything ! " 

"They  will  have  some  difficulty,  perhaps,  in  reading 
the  names — they  are  all  queer;  but  I  shall  correct  the 
proof  myself." 

"Then,  Monsieur,"  asked  the  lounger  again,  eager  to 
obtain  all  the  information  he  could,  "those  people  who 
are  going  on  board  are  almost  all  foreigners?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur;  yes,  Monsieur;  yes,  Monsieur!" 
responded  Jacquemin,  visibly  annoyed.  "There  are 
many  foreigners  in  the  city,  very  many;  and  I  prefer 
them,  myself,  to  the  provincials  of  Paris." 

The  other  did  not  seem  to  understand;  but  he  smiled, 
thanked  the  reporter,  and  strolled  away  from  the  para- 
pet, telling  all  the  people  he  met:  "It  is  a  fete!  Prince 
Andras,  a  Hungarian,  is  about  to  be  married.  Prince 
Andras  Zilah!  A  fete  on  board  a  steamer!  What  a 
droll  idea!" 

Others,  equally  curious,  leaned  over  the  Quai  des 
Tuileries  and  watched  the  steamer,  whose  tricolor  flag 
at  the  stern,  and  red  streamers  at  the  mastheads,  floated 
with  gay  flutterings  in  the  fresh  morning  breeze.  The 

[2] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

boat  was  ready  to  start,  its  decks  were  waxed,  its  benches 
covered  with  brilliant  stuffs,  and  great  masses  of  azaleas 
and  roses  gave  it  the  appearance  of  a  garden  or  con- 
servatory. There  was  something  highly  attractive  to 
the  loungers  on  the  quay  in  the  gayly  decorated  steamer, 
sending  forth  long  puffs  of  white  smoke  along  the  bank. 
A  band  of  dark-complexioned  musicians,  clad  in  red 
trousers,  black  waistcoats  heavily  embroidered  in  som- 
bre colors,  and  round  fur  caps,  played  odd  airs  upon  the 
deck;  while  bevies  of  laughing  women,  almost  all  pretty 
in  their  light  summer  gowns,  alighted  from  coupes  and 
barouches,  descended  the  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the 
river,  and  crossed  the  plank  to  the  boat,  with  little  co- 
quettish graces  and  studied  raising  of  the  skirts,  allow- 
ing ravishing  glimpses  of  pretty  feet  and  ankles.  The 
defile  of  merry,  witty  Parisiennes,  with  their  attendant 
cavaliers,  while  the  orchestra  played  the  passionate  notes 
of  the  Hungarian  czardas,  resembled  some  vision  of  a 
painter,  some  embarkation  for  the  dreamed-of  Cythera, 
realized  by  the  fancy  of  an  artist,  a  poet,  or  a  great  lord, 
here  in  nineteenth-century  Paris,  close  to  the  bridge, 
across  which  streamed,  like  a  living  antithesis,  the  real- 
ism of  crowded  cabs,  full  omnibuses,  and  hurrying  foot- 
passengers. 

Prince  Andras  Zilah  had  invited  his  friends,  this  July 
morning,  to  a  breakfast  in  the  open  air,  before  the  mov- 
ing panorama  of  the  banks  of  the  Seine. 

Very  well  known  in  Parisian  society,  which  he  had 
sought  eagerly  with  an  evident  desire  to  be  diverted, 
like  a  man  who  wishes  to  forget,  the  former  defender  of 
Hungarian  independence,  the  son  of  old  Prince  Zilah 

[3] 


JULES  GLARETIE 

Sandor,  who  was  the  last,  in  1849,  to  hold  erect  the  tat- 
tered standard  of  his  country,  had  been  prodigal  of  his 
invitations,  summoning  to  his  side  his  few  intimate 
friends,  the  sharers  of  his  solitude  and  his  privacy,  and 
also  the  greater  part  of  those  chance  fugitive  acquaint- 
ances which  the  life  of  Paris  inevitably  gives,  and  which 
are  blown  away  as  lightly  as  they  appeared,  in  a  breath 
of  air  or  a  whirlwind. 

Count  Yanski  Varhely,  the  oldest,  strongest,  and  most 
devoted  friend  of  all  those  who  surrounded  the  Prince, 
knew  very  well  why  this  fanciful  idea  had  come  to  An- 
dras.  At  forty-four,  the  Prince  was  bidding  farewell  to 
his  bachelor  life:  it  was  no  folly,  and  Yanski  saw  with 
delight  that  the  ancient  race  of  the  Zilahs,  from  time 
immemorial  servants  of  patriotism  and  the  right,  was 
not  to  be  extinct  with  Prince  Andras.  Hungary,  whose 
future  seemed  brightening,  needed  the  Zilahs  in  the 
future  as  she  had  needed  them  in  the  past. 

"  I  have  only  one  objection  to  make  to  this  marriage," 
said  Varhely;  " it  should  have  taken  place  sooner."  But 
a  man  can  not  command  his  heart  to  love  at  a  given 
hour.  When  very  young,  Andras  Zilah  had  cared  for 
scarcely  anything  but  his  country;  and,  far  from  her,  in 
the  bitterness  of  exile,  he  had  returned  to  the  passion  of 
his  youth,  living  in  Paris  only  upon  memories  of  his 
Hungary.  He  had  allowed  year  after  year  to  roll  by, 
without  thinking  of  establishing  a  home  of  his  own  by 
marriage.  A  little  late,  but  with  heart  still  warm,  his 
spirit  young  and  ardent,  and  his  body  strengthened 
rather  than  worn  out  by  life,  Prince  Andras  gave  to  a 
woman's  keeping  his  whole  being,  his  soul  with  his  name, 

[4] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

the  one  as  great  as  the  other.  He  was  about  to  marry  a 
girl  of  his  own  choice,  whom  he  loved  romantically;  and 
he  wished  to  give  a  surrounding  of  poetic  gayety  to  this 
farewell  to  the  past,  this  greeting  to  the  future.  The 
men  of  his  race,  in  days  gone  by,  had  always  displayed  a 
gorgeous,  almost  Oriental  originality:  the  generous  ec- 
centricities of  one  of  Prince  Andras's  ancestors,  the  old 
Magyar  Zilah,  were  often  cited ;  he  it  was  who  made  this 
answer  to  his  stewards,  when,  figures  in  hand,  they 
proved  to  him,  that,  if  he  would  farm  out  to  some  Eng- 
lish or  German  company  the  cultivation  of  his  wheat, 
corn,  and  oats,  he  would  increase  his  revenue  by  about 
six  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year: 

"But  shall  I  make  these  six  hundred  thousand  francs 
from  the  nourishment  of  our  laborers,  farmers,  sowers, 
and  gleaners  ?  No,  certainly  not ;  I  would  no  more  take 
that  money  from  the  poor  fellows  than  I  would  take  the 
scattered  grains  from  the  birds  of  the  air." 

It  was  also  this  grandfather  of  Andras,  Prince  Zilah 
Ferency,  who,  when  he  had  lost  at  cards  the  wages  of 
two  hundred  masons  for  an  entire  year,  employed  these 
men  in  constructing  chateaux,  which  he  burned  down  at 
the  end  of  the  year  to  give  himself  the  enjoyment  of  fire- 
works upon  picturesque  ruins. 

The  fortune  of  the  Zilahs  was  then  on  a  par  with 
the  almost  fabulous,  incalculable  wealth  of  the  Ester- 
hazys  and  Batthyanyis.  Prince  Paul  Esterhazy  alone 
possessed  three  hundred  and  fifty  square  leagues  of  ter- 
ritory in  Hungary.  The  Zichys,  the  Karolyis  and  the 
Szchenyis,  poorer,  had  but  two  hundred  at  this  time, 
when  only  six  hundred  families  were  proprietors  of  six 

[5] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

thousand  acres  of  Hungarian  soil,  the  nobles  of  Great 
Britain  possessing  not  more  than  five  thousand  in  Eng- 
land. The  Prince  of  Lichtenstein  entertained  for  a 
week  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  his  staff  an.d  his  army. 
Old  Ferency  Zilah  would  have  done  as  much  if  he  had 
not  always  cherished  a  profound,  glowing,  militant 
hatred  of  Austria :  never  had  the  family  of  the  magnate 
submitted  to  Germany,  become  the  master,  any  more 
than  it  had  bent  the  knee  in  former  times  to  the  con- 
quering Turk. 

From  his  ancestors  Prince  Andras  inherited,  therefore, 
superb  liberality,  with  a  fortune  greatly  diminished  by  all 
sorts  of  losses  and  misfortunes — half  of  it  confiscated  by 
Austria  in  1849,  and  enormous  sums  expended  for  the 
national  cause,  Hungarian  emigrants  and  proscribed 
compatriots.  Zilah  nevertheless  remained  very  rich, 
and  was  an  imposing  figure  in  Paris,  where,  some  years 
before,  after  long  journeyings,  he  had  taken  up  his 
abode. 

The  little  fete  given  for  his  friends  on  board  the  Pa- 
risian steamer  was  a  trifling  matter  to  the  descendant  of 
the  magnificent  Magyars;  but  still  there  was  a  certain 
charm  about  the  affair,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  for  the 
Prince  to  see  upon  the  garden-like  deck  the  amusing, 
frivolous,  elegant  society,  which  was  the  one  he  mingled 
with,  but  which  he  towered  above  from  the  height  of  his 
great  intelligence,  his  conscience,  and  his  convictions. 
It  was  a  mixed  and  bizarre  society,  of  different  national- 
ities; an  assemblage  of  exotic  personages,  such  as  are 
met  with  only  in  Paris  in  certain  peculiar  places  where 
aristocracy  touches  Bohemianism,  and  nobles  mingle 

[6] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

with  quasi-adventurers;  a  kaleidoscopic  society,  grafting 
its  vices  upon  Parisian  follies,  coming  to  inhale  the 
aroma  and  absorb  the  poison  of  Paris,  adding  thereto 
strange  intoxications,  and  forming,  in  the  immense  ag- 
glomeration of  the  old  French  city,  a  sort  of  peculiar 
syndicate,  an  odd  colony,  which  belongs  to  Paris,  but 
which,  however,  has  nothing  of  Paris  about  it  except  its 
eccentricities,  which  drive  post-haste  through  life,  fill 
the  little  journals  with  its  great  follies,  is  found  and 
found  again  wherever  Paris  overflows — at  Dieppe, 
Trouville,  Vichy,  Cauteret,  upon  the  sands  of  Etretat, 
under  the  orange-trees  of  Nice,  or  about  the  gaming 
tables  of  Monaco,  according  to  the  hour,  season,  and 
fashion. 

This  was  the  sort  of  assemblage  which,  powdered, 
perfumed,  exquisitely  dressed,  invaded,  with  gay  laugh- 
ter and  nervous  desire  to  be  amused,  the  boat  chartered 
by  the  Prince.  Above,  pencil  in  hand,  the  little  dark 
man  with  the  keen  eyes,  black,  pointed  beard  and  waxed 
moustache,  continued  to  take  down,  as  the  cortege  defiled 
before  him,  the  list  of  the  invited  guests:  and  upon  the 
leaves  fell,  briskly  traced,  names  printed  a  hundred 
times  a  day  in  Parisian  chronicles  among  the  reports  of 
the  races  of  first  representations  at  the  theatres;  names 
with  Slav,  Latin,  or  Saxon  terminations;  Italian  names, 
Spanish,  Hungarian,  American  names;  each  of  which 
represented  fortune,  glory,  power,  sometimes  scandal- 
one  of  those  imported  scandals  which  break  out  in  Paris 
as  the  trichinae  of  foreign  goods  are  hatched  there. 

The  reporter  wrote  on,  wrote  ever,  tearing  off  and 
handing  to  the  page  attached  to  UActualite  the  last 

[7] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

leaves  of  his  list,  whereon  figured  Yankee  generals  of  the 
War  of  the  Rebellion,  Italian  princesses,  American  girls 
flirting  with  everything  that  wore  trousers;  ladies  who, 
rivals  of  Prince  Zilah  in  wealth,  owned  whole  counties 
somewhere  in  England ;  great  Cuban  lords,  compromised 
in  the  latest  insurrections  and  condemned  to  death  in 
Spain;  Peruvian  statesmen,  publicists,  and  military 
chiefs  at  once,  masters  of  the  tongue,  the  pen,  and  the 
revolver;  a  crowd  of  originals,  even  a  Japanese,  an  ele- 
gant young  man,  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion,  with  a 
heavy  sombrero  which  rested  upon  his  straight,  inky- 
black  hair,  and  which  every  minute  or  two  he  took  off 
and  placed  under  his  left  arm,  to  salute  the  people  of  his 
acquaintance  with  low  bows  in  the  most  approved  French 
manner. 

All  these  odd  people,  astonishing  a  little  and  interest- 
ing greatly  the  groups  of  Parisians  gathered  above  on 
the  sidewalks,  crossed  the  gangway  leading  to  the  boat, 
and,  spreading  about  on  the  deck,  gazed  at  the  banks 
and  the  houses,  or  listened  to  the  czardas  which  the 
Hungarian  musicians  were  playing  with  a  sort  of  savage 
frenzy  beneath  the  French  tricolor  united  to  the  three 
colors  of  their  own  country. 

The  Tzigani  thus  saluted  the  embarkation  of  the 
guests;  and  the  clear,  bright  sunshine  enveloped  the 
whole  boat  with  a  golden  aureole,  joyously  illuminating 
the  scene  of  feverish  gayety  and  childish  laughter. 


[8] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  BARONESS'S  MATCHMAKING 

[E  PRINCE  ZILAH  met  his  guests 
with  easy  grace,  on  the  deck  in  front 
of  the  foot-bridge.  He  had  a  pleasant 
word  for  each  one  as  they  came  on 
board,  happy  and  smiling  at  the  idea  of 
a  breakfast  on  the  deck  of  a  steamer,  a 
novel  amusement  which  made  these 
insatiable  pleasure-seekers  forget  the 
fashionable  restaurants  and  the  conventional  receptions 
of  every  day. 

"What  a  charming  thought  this  was  of  yours,  Prince; 
so  unexpected,  so  Parisian,  ah,  entirely  Parisian!" 

In  almost  the  same  words  did  each  newcomer  ad- 
dress the  Prince,  who  smiled,  and  repeated  a  phrase  from 
Jacquemin's  chronicles:  "Foreigners  are  more  Parisian 
than  the  Parisians  themselves." 

A  smile  lent  an  unexpected  charm  to  the  almost  severe 
features  of  the  host.  His  usual  expression  was  rather 
sad,  and  a  trifle  haughty.  His  forehead  was  broad  and 
high,  the  forehead  of  a  thinker  and  a  student  rather  than 
that  of  a  soldier;  his  eyes  were  of  a  deep,  clear  blue, 
looking  directly  at  everything;  his  nose  was  straight  and 
regular,  and  his  beard  and  moustache  were  blond, 
slightly  gray  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth  and  the  chin. 
His  whole  appearance,  suggesting,  as  it  did,  reserved 

[9] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

strength  and  controlled  passion,  pleased  all  the  more  be- 
cause, while  commanding  respect,  it  attracted  sympathy: 
beneath  the  powerful  exterior,  you  felt  there  was  a  tender 
kindliness  of  heart. 

There  was  no  need  for  the  name  of  Prince  Andras 
Zilah — or,  as  they  say  in  Hungary,  Zilah  Andras — to 
have  been  written  in  characters  of  blood  in  the  history 
of  his  country,  for  one  to  divine  the  hero  in  him:  his 
erect  figure,  the  carriage  of  his  head,  braving  life  as  it  had 
defied  the  bullets  of  the  enemy,  the  strange  brilliance  of 
his  gaze,  the  sweet  inflections  of  his  voice  accustomed  to 
command,  and  the  almost  caressing  gestures  of  his  hand 
used  to  the  sword — all  showed  the  good  man  under  the 
brave,  and,  beneath  the  indomitable  soldier,  the  true 
gentleman. 

When  they  had  shaken  the  hand  of  their  host,  the 
guests  advanced  to  the  bow  of  the  boat  to  salute  a  young 
girl,  an  exquisite,  pale  brunette,  with  great,  sad  eyes,  and 
a  smile  of  infinite  charm,  who  was  half -extended  in  a 
low  armchair  beneath  masses  of  brilliant  parti-colored 
flowers.  A  stout  man,  of  the  Russian  type,  with  heavy 
reddish  moustaches  streaked  with  gray,  and  an  apoplec- 
tic neck,  stood  by  her  side,  buttoned  up  in  his  frock-coat 
as  in  a  military  uniform. 

Every  now  and  then,  leaning  over  and  brushing  with 
his  moustaches  her  delicate  white  ear,  he  would  ask : 

"Are  you  happy,  Marsa?" 

And  Marsa  would  answer  with  a  smile  ending  in  a 
sigh,  as  she  vaguely  contemplated  the  scene  before  her: 

"Yes,  uncle,  very  happy." 

Not  far  from  these  two  was  a  little  woman,  still  very 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

pretty,  although  of  a  certain  age — the  age  of  embon- 
point— a  brunette,  with  very  delicate  features,  a  little 
sensual  mouth,  and  pretty  rosy  ears  peeping  forth  from 
skilfully  arranged  masses  of  black  hair.  With  a  plump, 
dimpled  hand,  she  held  before  her  myopic  eyes  a  pair  of 
gold-mounted  glasses;  and  she  was  speaking  to  a  man 
of  rather  stern  aspect,  with  a  Slav  physiognomy,  a  large 
head,  crowned  with  a  mass  of  crinkly  hair  as  white  as 
lamb's  wool,  a  long,  white  moustache,  and  shoulders  as 
broad  as  an  ox;  a  man  already  old,  but  with  the  robust 
strength  of  an  oak.  He  was  dressed  neither  well  nor 
ill,  lacking  distinction,  but  without  vulgarity. 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  Varhely,  I  am  enchanted  with  this 
idea  of  Prince  Andras.  I  am  enjoying  myself  exces- 
sively already,  and  I  intend  to  enjoy  myself  still  more. 
Do  you  know,  this  scheme  of  a  breakfast  on  the  water  is 
simply  delightful !  Don't  you  find  it  so ?  Oh!  do  be  a 
little  jolly,  Varhely!" 

"Do  I  seem  sad,  then,  Baroness?" 

Yanski  Varhely,  the  friend  of  Prince  Andras,  was  very 
happy,  however,  despite  his  rather  sombre  air.  He 
glanced  alternately  at  the  little  woman  who  addressed 
him,  and  at  Marsa,  two  very  different  types  of  beauty: 
Andras's  fiancee,  slender  and  pale  as  a  beautiful  lily,  and 
the  little  Baroness  Dinati,  round  and  rosy  as  a  ripe  peach. 
And  he  was  decidedly  pleased  with  this  Marsa  Laszlo, 
against  whom  he  had  instinctively  felt  some  prejudice 
when  Zilah  spoke  to  him  for  the  first  time  of  marrying 
her.  To  make  of  a  Tzigana — for  Marsa  was  half  Tzi- 
gana — a  Princess  Zilah,  seemed  to  Count  Varhely  a 
slightly  bold  resolution,  The  brave  old  soldier  had 


JULES  CLARETIE 

never  understood  much  of  the  fantastic  caprices  of  pas- 
sion, and  Andras  seemed  to  him  in  this,  as  in  all  other 
things,  just  a  little  romantic.  But,  after  all,  the  Prince 
was  his  own  master,  and  whatever  a  Zilah  did  was  well 
done.  So,  after  reflection,  Zilah's  marriage  became  a 
joy  to  Varhely,  as  he  had  just  been  declaring  to  the 
fiancee's  uncle,  General  Vogotzine. 

Baroness  Dinati  was  therefore  wrong  to  suspect  old 
Yanski  Varhely  of  any  arriere-pensee.  How  was  it 
possible  for  him  not  to  be  enchanted,  when  he  saw  An- 
dras absolutely  beaming  with  happiness? 

They  were  now  about  to  depart,  to  raise  the  anchor 
and  glide  down  the  river  along  the  quays.  Already 
Paul  Jacquemin,  casting  his  last  leaves  to  the  page  of 
L'Actualite,  was  quickly  descending  the  gangplank. 
Zilah  scarcely  noticed  him,  for  he  uttered  a  veritable  cry 
of  delight  as  he  perceived  behind  the  reporter  a  young 
man  whom  he  had  not  expected. 

"Menko!  My  dear  Michel!"  he  exclaimed,  stretch- 
ing out  both  hands  to  the  newcomer,  who  advanced, 
excessively  pale.  "  By  what  happy  chance  do  I  see  you, 
my  dear  boy?" 

"I  heard  in  London  that  you  were  to  give  this  fete. 
The  English  newspapers  had  announced  your  marriage, 
and  I  did  not  wish  to  wait  longer — I ." 

He  hesitated  a  little  as  he  spoke,  as  if  dissatisfied, 
troubled,  and  a  moment  before  (Zilah  had  not  noticed 
it)  he  had  made  a  movement  as  if  to  go  back  to  the  quay 
and  leave  the  boat. 

Michel  Menko,  however,  had  not  the  air  of  a  timid 
man.  He  was  tall,  thin,  of  graceful  figure,  a  man  of  the 

[12] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

world,  a  military  diplomat.  For  some  reason  or  other, 
at  this  moment,  he  exhibited  a  certain  uneasiness  in  his 
face,  which  ordinarily  bore  a  rather  brilliant  color,  but 
which  was  now  almost  sallow.  He  was  instinctively 
seeking  some  one  among  the  Prince's  guests,  and  his 
glance  wandered  about  the  deck  with  a  sort  of  dull 
anger. 

Prince  Andras  saw  only  one  thing  in  Menko's  sudden 
appearance;  the  young  man,  to  whom  he  was  deeply 
attached,  and  who  was  the  only  relative  he  had  in  the 
world  (his  maternal  grandmother  having  been  a  Coun- 
tess Menko),  his  dear  Michel,  would  be  present  at  his 
marriage.  He  had  thought  Menko  ill  in  London;  but 
the  latter  appeared  before  him,  and  the  day  was  decid- 
edly a  happy  one. 

"How  happy  you  make  me,  my  dear  fellow!"  he  said 
to  him  in  a  tone  of  affection  which  was  almost  paternal. 

Each  demonstration  of  friendship  by  the  Prince 
seemed  to  increase  the  young  Count's  embarrassment. 
Beneath  a  polished  manner,  the  evidence  of  an  imperi- 
ous temperament  appeared  in  the  slightest  glance,  the 
least  gesture,  of  this  handsome  fellow  of  twenty-seven  or 
twenty-eight  years.  Seeing  him  pass  by,  one  could 
easily  imagine  him  with  his  fashionable  clothes  cast 
aside,  and,  clad  in  the  uniform  of  the  Hungarian  hus- 
sars, with  closely  shaven  chin,  and  moustaches  brushed 
fiercely  upward,  manoeuvring  his  horse  on  the  Prater 
with  supple  grace  and  nerves  like  steel. 

Menko's  gray  eyes,  with  blue  reflections  in  them, 
which  made  one  think  of  the  reflection  of  a  storm  in  a 
placid  lake,  became  sad  when  calm,  but  were  full  of 


JULES  CLARETIE 

a  threatening  light  when  animated.  The  gaze  of  the 
young  man  had  precisely  this  aggressive  look  when  he 
discovered,  half  hidden  among  the  flowers,  Marsa  seated 
in  the  bow  of  the  boat;  then,  almost  instantaneously  a 
singular  expression  of  sorrow  or  anguish  succeeded,  only 
in  its  turn  to  fade  away  with  the  rapidity  of  the  light  of  a 
falling  star;  and  there  was  perfect  calm  in  Menko's  atti- 
tude and  expression  when  Prince  Zilah  said  to  him: 

"Come,  Michel,  let  me  present  you  to  my  fiancee. 
Varhely  is  there  also." 

And,  taking  Menko's  arm,  he  led  him  toward  Marsa. 
"See,"  he  said  to  the  young  girl,  "my  happiness  is  com- 
plete." 

She,  as  Michel  Menko  bowed  low  before  her,  coldly 
and  almost  imperceptibly  inclined  her  dark  head,  while 
her  large  eyes,  under  the  shadow  of  their  heavy  lashes, 
seemed  vainly  trying  to  meet  the  gray  eyes  of  the  young 
man. 

Andras  beckoned  Varhely  to  come  to  Marsa,  who  was 
white  as  marble,  and  said  softly,  with  a  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  each  of  the  two  friends,  who  represented  to 
him  his  whole  life — Varhely,  the  past;  Michel  Menko, 
his  recovered  youth  and  the  future. 

"If  it  were  not  for  that  stupid  superstition  which  for- 
bids one  to  proclaim  his  happiness,  I  should  tell  you  how 
happy  I  am,  very  happy.  Yes,  the  happiest  of  men," 
he  added. 

Meanwhile,  the  little  Baroness  Dinati,  the  pretty  bru- 
nette, who  had  just  found  Varhely  a  trifle  melancholy, 
had  turned  to  Paul  Jacquemin,  the  accredited  reporter 
of  her  salon, 

EH) 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"That  happiness,  Jacquemin,"  she  said,  with  a  proud 
wave  of  the  hand,  "  is  my  work.  Without  me,  those  two 
charming  savages,  so  well  suited  to  each  other,  Marsa 
and  Andras  Zilah,  would  never  have  met.  On  what 
does  happiness  depend!" 

"On  an  invitation  card  engraved  by  Stern,"  laughed 
Jacquemin.  "But  you  have  said  too  much,  Baroness. 
You  must  tell  me  the  whole  story.  Think  what  an  arti- 
cle it  would  make :  The  Baroness's  Matchmaking !  The 
romance!  Quick,  the  romance!  The  romance,  or 
death!" 

"You  have  no  idea  how  near  you  are  to  the  truth,  my 
dear  Jacquemin:  it  is  indeed  a  romance;  and,  what  is 
more,  a  romantic  romance.  A  romance  which  has  no 
resemblance  to — you  have  invented  the  word — those 
brutalistic  stories  which  you  are  so  fond  of." 

"Which  I  am  very  fond  of,  Baroness,  I  confess,  espe- 
cially when  they  are  just  a  little — you  know!" 

"But  this  romance  of  Prince  Andras  is  by  no  means 
just  a  little — you  know !  It  is — how  shall  I  express  it  ? 
It  is  epic,  heroic,  romantic — what  you  will.  I  will  relate 
it  to  you." 

"It  will  sell  fifty  thousand  copies  of  our  paper,"  gayly 
exclaimed  Jacquemin,  opening  his  ears,  and  taking 
notes  mentally. 


[15] 


CHAPTER  III 


JNDRAS  ZILAH,  Transylvanian  Count 
and  Prince  of  the  Holy  Empire,  was 
one  of  those  heroes  who  devote  their 
whole  lives  to  one  aim,  and,  when  they 
love,  love  always. 

Born  for  action,  for  chivalrous  and 
incessant  struggle,  he  had  sacrificed  his 
first  youth  to  battling  for  his  country, 
"The  Hungarian  was  created  on  horseback,"  says  a 
proverb,  and  Andras  did  not  belie  the  saying.  In  '48, 
at  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  was  in  the  saddle,  charging  the 
Croatian  hussars,  the  red-cloaks,  the  terrible  dark- 
skinned  Ottochan  horsemen,  uttering  frightful  yells,  and 
brandishing  their  big  damascened  guns.  It  seemed  then 
to  young  Andras  that  he  was  assisting  at  one  of  the 
combats  of  the  Middle  Ages,  during  one  of  those  revolts 
against  the  Osmanlis,  of  which  he  had  heard  so  much 
when  a  child. 

In  the  old  castle,  with  towers  painted  red  in  the 
ancient  fashion,  where  he  was  born  and  had  grown  up, 
Andras,  like  all  the  males  of  his  family  and  his  country, 
had  been  imbued  with  memories  of  the  old  wars.  A 
few  miles  from  his  father's  domain  rose  the  Castle  of  the 
Isle,  which,  in  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 

[16] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

Zringi  had  defended  against  the  Turks,  displaying  lofty 
courage  and  unconquerable  audacity,  and  forcing  Soli- 
man  the  Magnificent  to  leave  thirty  thousand  soldiers 
beneath  the  walls,  the  Sultan  himself  dying  before  he 
could  subjugate  the  Hungarian.  Often  had  Andras's 
father,  casting  his  son  upon  a  horse,  set  out,  followed  by 
a  train  of  cavaliers,  for  Mohacz,  where  the  Mussulmans 
had  once  overwhelmed  the  soldiers  of  young  King  Louis, 
who  died  with  his  own  family  and  every  Hungarian 
who  was  able  to  carry  arms.  Prince  Zilah  related  to 
the  little  fellow,  who  listened  to  him  with  burning  tears 
of  rage,  the  story  of  the  days  of  mourning  and  the  terri- 
ble massacres  which  no  Hungarian  has  ever  forgotten. 
Then  he  told  him  of  the  great  revolts,  the  patriotic  up- 
risings, the  exploits  of  Botzkai,  Bethlen  Gabor,  or  Ra- 
koczy,  whose  proud  battle  hymn  made  the  blood  surge 
through  the  veins  of  the  little  prince. 

Once  at  Buda,  the  father  had  taken  the  son  to  the 
spot,  where,  in  1795,  fell  the  heads  of  noble  Hungarians, 
accused  of  republicanism ;  and  he  said  to  him,  as  the  boy 
stood  with  uncovered  head: 

"This  place  is  called  the  Field  of  Blood.  Martino- 
witz  was  beheaded  here  for  his  faith.  Remember,  that 
a  man's  life  belongs  to  his  duty,  and  not  to  his  happi- 
ness." 

And  when  he  returned  to  the  great  sombre  halls  of  the 
castle,  whence  in  bygone  days  the  Turks  had  driven  out 
his  ancestors,  and  whence,  in  their  turn,  throwing  off  the 
yoke  of  the  conquerors,  his  ancestors  had  driven  out  the 
Turks,  little  Prince  Andras  found  again  examples  before 
him  in  the  giants  in  semi-oriental  costumes,  glittering  in 

2  [17] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

steel  or  draped  in  purple,  who  looked  down  upon  him 
from  their  frames;  smoke-blackened  paintings  wherein 
the  eagle  eyes  and  long  moustaches  of  black  hussars,  con- 
temporaries of  Sobieski,  or  magnates  in  furred  robes, 
with  aigrettes  in  their  caps,  and  curved  sabres  garnished 
with  precious  stones  and  enamel,  attracted  and  held 
spellbound  the  silent  child,  while  through  the  window 
floated  in,  sung  by  some  shepherd,  or  played  by  wander- 
ing Tzigani,  the  refrain  of  the  old  patriotic  ballad  Czaty 
Demeter,  the  origin  of  which  is  lost  in  the  mist  of  ages : 

Remember,  oh,  yes/  remember  our  ancestors!  Brave,  proud  Mag- 
yars, when  you  left  the  land  of  the  Scythians,  brave  ancestors,  great 
forefathers,  you  did  not  suspect  that  your  sons  would  be  slaves!  Re- 
member, oh,  yes!  remember  our  ancestors! 

Andras  did  remember  them,  and  he  knew  by  heart 
their  history.  He  knew  the  heroism  of  Prinee  Zilah 
Sandor  falling  in  Mohacz  in  1566  beside  his  wife  Hanska 
who  had  followed  him,  leaving  in  the  cradle  her  son 
Janski,  whose  grandson,  Zilah  Janos,  in  1867,  at  the 
very  place  where  his  ancestor  had  been  struck,  sabred 
the  Turks,  crying:  "Sandor  and  Hanska,  look  down 
upon  me;  your  blood  avenges  you!" 

There  was  not  one  of  those  men,  whose  portraits  fol- 
lowed the  child  with  their  black  eyes,  who  was  not  re- 
corded in  the  history  of  his  country  for  some  startling 
deed  or  noble  sacrifice.  All  had  fought  for  Hungary: 
the  greater  part  had  died  for  her.  There  was  a  saying 
that  the  deathbed  of  the  Zilahs  was  a  bloody  battle- 
ground. When  he  offered  his  name  and  his  life  to 
Maria  Theresa,  one  of  the  Zilah  princes  had  said  proudly 

[18] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

to  the  Empress:  "You  demand  of  the  Hungarians  gold, 
—they  bring  you  steel.  The  gold  was  to  nourish  your 
courtiers,  the  steel  will  be  to  save  your  crown.  For- 
ward!" These  terrible  ancestors  were,  besides,  like  all 
the  magnates  of  Hungary,  excessively  proud  of  their  no- 
bility and  their  patriarchal  system  of  feudalism.  They 
knew  how  to  protect  their  peasants,  who  were  trained 
soldiers,  how  to  fight  for  them,  and  how  to  die  at  their 
head;  but  force  seemed  to  them  supreme  justice,  and 
they  asked  nothing  but  their  sword  with  which  to  defend 
their  right.  Andras's  father,  Prince  Sandor,  educated  by 
a  French  tutor  who  had  been  driven  from  Paris  by  the 
Revolution,  was  the  first  of  all  his  family  to  form  any 
perception  of  a  civilization  based  upon  justice  and  law, 
and  not  upon  the  almighty  power  of  the  sabre.  The 
liberal  education  which  he  had  received,  Prince  Sandor 
transmitted  to  his  son.  The  peasants,  who  detested  the 
pride  of  the  Magyars,  and  the  middle  classes  of  the 
cities,  mostly  tradesmen  who  envied  the  castles  of  these 
magnates,  soon  became  attracted,  fascinated,  and  en- 
raptured with  this  transformation  in  the  ancient  family 
of  the  Zilahs.  No  man,  not  even  Georgei,  the  Spartan- 
like  soldier,  nor  the  illustrious  Kossuth,  was  more  popu- 
lar in  1849,  at  the  time  of  the  struggle  against  Austria, 
than  Prince  Sandor  Zilah  and  his  son,  then  a  handsome 
boy  of  sixteen,  but  strong  and  well  built  as  a  youth  of 
twenty. 

At  this  youthful  age,  Andras  Zilah  had  been  one  of 
those  magnates,  who,  the  kalpach  on  the  head,  the  na- 
tional attila  over  the  shoulder  and  the  hand  upon  the 
hilt  of  the  sword,  had  gone  to  Vienna  to  plead  before 

[19] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

the  Emperor  the  cause  of  Hungary.  They  were  not 
listened  to,  and  one  evening,  the  negotiations  proving 
futile,  Count  Batthyanyi  said  to  Jellachich: 

"We  shall  soon  meet  again  upon  the  Drave!" 

"No,"  responded  the  Ban  of  Croatia,  "I  will  go  my- 
self to  seek  you  upon  the  Danube!" 

This  was  war;  and  Prince  Sandor  went,  with  his  son, 
to  fight  bravely  for  the  old  kingdom  of  St.  Stephen 
against  the  cannon  and  soldiers  of  Jellachich. 

All  these  years  of  blood  and  battle  were  now  half 
forgotten  by  Prince  Andras;  but  often  Yanski  Varhely, 
his  companion  of  those  days  of  hardship,  the  bold  soldier 
who  in  former  times  had  so  often  braved  the  broad- 
sword of  the  Bohemian  cuirassiers  of  Auersperg's  regi- 
ment, would  recall  to  him  the  past  with  a  mournful 
shake  of  the  head,  and  repeat,  ironically,  the  bitter  re- 
frain of  the  song  of  defeat: 

Dance,  dance,  daughters  of  Hungary! 
Tread  now  the  measure  so  long  delayed. 
Murdered  our  sons  by  the  shot  or  the  hangman! 
In  this  land  of  pleasure,  oh!  be  not  dismayed; — 
Now  is  the  time,  brown  daughters  of  Hungary, 
To  dance  to  the  measure  of  true  hearts  betrayed! 

And  then,  these  melancholy  words  calling  up  the 
memory  of  disaster,  all  would  revive  before  Andras  Zi- 
lah's  eyes — the  days  of  mourning  and  the  days  of  glory; 
the  exploits  of  Bern;  the  victories  of  Dembiski;  the  Aus- 
trian flags  taken  at  Goedollce;  the  assaults  of  Buda; 
the  defence  of  Comorn;  Austria,  dejected  and  defeated, 
imploring  the  aid  of  Russia;  Hungary,  beaten  by  the 

[20] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

force  of  numbers,  yet  resisting  Paskiewich  as  she  had 
resisted  Haynau,  and  appealing  to  Europe  and  the 
world  in  the  name  of  the  eternal  law  of  nations,  which 
the  vanquished  invoke,  but  which  is  never  listened  to 
by  the  countries  where  the  lion  is  tearing  his  prey.  And 
again,  Zilah  would  remember  the  heroic  fatherland 
struck  down  at  Temesvar;  the  remnants  of  an  armed 
people  in  refuge  at  Arad;  and  Klapka  still  holding  out 
in  the  island  of  Comorn  at  the  moment  when  Georgei 
had  surrendered.  Then,  again,  the  obscure  deaths  of 
his  comrades;  the  agonies  in  the  ditches  and  in  the 
depths  of  the  woods;  the  last  despairing  cries  of  a  con- 
quered people  overwhelmed  by  numbers: 

Dance,  dance,  daughters  of  Hungary! 

All  this  bloody  past,  enveloped  as  in  a  crimson  cloud, 
but  glorious  with  its  gleams  of  hope  and  its  flashes  of 
victory,  the  Prince  would  revive  with  old  Varhely,  in  the 
corner  of  whose  eye  at  intervals  a  tear  would  glisten. 

They  both  saw  again  the  last  days  of  Comorn,  with 
the  Danube  at  the  foot  of  the  walls,  and  the  leaves  of  the 
trees  whirling  in  the  September  wind,  and  dispersed  like 
the  Hungarians  themselves;  and  the  shells  falling  upon 
the  ramparts;  and  the  last  hours  of  the  siege;  and  the 
years  of  mournful  sadness  and  exile;  their  companions 
decimated,  imprisoned,  led  to  the  gallows  or  the  stake ; 
the  frightful  silence  and  ruin  falling  like  a  winding-sheet 
over  Hungary;  the  houses  deserted,  the  fields  laid  waste, 
and  the  country,  fertile  yesterday,  covered  now  with 
those  Muscovite  thistles,  which  were  unknown  in  Hun- 
gary before  the  year  of  massacre,  and  the  seeds  of  which 

[21] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

the  Cossack  horses  had  imported  in  their  thick  manes 
and  tails. 

Beloved  Hungary,  whose  sons,  disdaining  the  uni- 
verse, used  proudly  to  boast:  "Have  we  not  all  that  man 
needs?  Banat,  which  gives  us  wheat;  Tisza,  wine;  the 
mountain,  gold  and  salt.  Our  country  is  sufficient  for 
her  children!"  And  this  country,  this  fruitful  country, 
was  now  covered  with  gibbets  and  corpses. 


[22] 


CHAPTER  IV 

"WHEN  HUNGARY  is  FREE!" 

F    all    these    bitter    memories    Prince 
Andras,  in  spite  of  the  years  that  had 
passed,  kept  ever  in  his  mind  one  sad 
and    tragic   event — the   burial   of  his 
father,  Sandor  Zilah,  who  was  shot  in 
the  head  by  a  bullet  during  an  encounter 
with  the  Croats  early  in  the  month  of 
January,  1849. 
Prince  Sandor  was  able  to  grasp  the  hand  of  his  son, 
and  murmur  in  the  ear  of  this  hero  of  sixteen: 
"Remember!    Love  and  defend  the  fatherland!" 
Then,  as  the  Austrians  were  close  at  hand,  it  was  nec- 
essary to  bury  the  Prince  in  a  trench  dug  in  the  snow,  at 
the  foot  of  a  clump  of  fir-trees. 

Some  Hungarian  honveds,  bourgeois  militia,  and  Var- 
hely's  hussars  held  at  the  edge  of  the  black  opening  res- 
inous torches,  which  the  wintry  wind  shook  like  scarlet 
plumes,  and  which  stained  the  snow  with  great  red  spots 
of  light.  Erect,  at  the  head  of  the  ditch,  his  fingers 
grasping  the  hand  of  Yanski  Varhely,  young  Prince  An- 
dras gazed  upon  the  earthy  bed,  where,  in  his  hussar's 
uniform,  lay  Prince  Sandor,  his  long  blond  moustache 
falling  over  his  closed  mouth,  his  blood-stained  hands 
crossed  upon  his  black  embroidered  vest,  his  right  hand 
still  clutching  the  handle  of  his  sabre,  and  on  his  fore- 

[23] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

head,  like  a  star,  the  round  mark  of  the  bit  of  lead  that 
had  killed  him. 

Above,  the  whitened  branches  of  the  firs  looked  like 
spectres,  and  upon  the  upturned  face  of  the  dead  soldier 
fell  flakes  of  snow  like  congealed  tears.  Under  the 
flickering  of  the  torch-flames,  blown  about  by  the  north 
wind,  the  hero  seemed  at  times  to  move  again,  and  a 
wild  desire  came  to  Andras  to  leap  down  into  the  grave 
and  snatch  away  the  body.  He  was  an  orphan  now, 
his  mother  having  died  when  he  was  an  infant,  and  he 
was  alone  in  the  world,  with  only  the  stanch  friendship 
of  Varhely  and  his  duty  to  his  country  to  sustain  him. 

"I  will  avenge  you,  father,"  he  whispered  to  the  pa- 
triot, who  could  no  longer  hear  his  words. 

The  hussars  and  honveds  had  advanced,  ready  to  fire 
a  final  salvo  over  the  grave  of  the  Prince,  when,  sud- 
denly, gliding  between  the  ranks  of  the  soldiers,  ap- 
peared a  band  of  Tzigani,  who  began  to  play  the  March 
of  Rakoczy,  the  Hungarian  Marseillaise,  the  stirring 
melody  pealing  forth  in  the  night-air,  and  lending  a  cer- 
tain mysteriously  touching  element  to  the  sad  scene. 
A  quick  shudder  ran  through  the  ranks  of  the  soldiers, 
ready  to  become  avengers. 

The  national  hymn  rang  out  like  a  song  of  glory  over 
the  resting-place  of  the  vanquished.  The  soul  of  the 
dead  seemed  to  speak  in  the  voice  of  the  heroic  music, 
recalling  to  the  harassed  contestants  for  liberty  the  great 
days  of  the  revolts  of  the  fatherland,  the  old  memories 
of  the  struggles  against  the  Turks,  the  furious  charges 
of  the  cavaliers  across  the  free  puszta,  the  vast  Hun- 
garian plain. 

[24] 


And  while,  With  long  sweeps  of  his  arm,  the  chief  of 
the  Tzigani  marked  the  measure,  and  the  czimbalom 
poured  forth  its  heartrending  notes,  it  seemed  to  the 
poor  fellows  gathered  about  that  the  music  of  the  March 
of  Rakoczy  summoned  a  whole  fantastic  squadron  of 
avengers,  horsemen  with  floating  pelisses  and  herons' 
plumes  in  their  hats,  who,  erect  in  their  saddles  and  with 
sabres  drawn,  struck,  struck  the  frightened  enemy,  and 
recovered,  foot  by  foot,  the  conquered  territory.  There 
was  in  this  exalted  march  a  sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  the 
clash  of  arms,  a  shaking  of  the  earth  under  the  gallop 
of  horsemen,  a  flash  of  agraffes,  a  rustle  of  pelisses  in  the 
wind,  an  heroic  gayety  and  a  chivalrous  bravery,  like 
the  cry  of  a  whole  people  of  cavaliers  sounding  the 
charge  of  deliverance. 

And  the  young  Prince,  gazing  down  upon  his  dead 
father,  remembered  how  many  times  those  mute  lips  had 
related  to  him  the  legend  of  the  czardas,  that  legend, 
symbolic  of  the  history  of  Hungary,  summing  up  all  the 
bitter  pain  of  the  conquest,  when  the  beautiful  dark  girls 
of  Transylvania  danced,  their  tears  burning  their  cheeks, 
under  the  lash  of  the  Osmanlis.  At  first,  cold  and  mo- 
tionless, like  statues  whose  calm  looks  silently  insulted 
their  possessors,  they  stood  erect  beneath  the  eye  of  the 
Turk;  then  little  by  little,  the  sting  of  the  master's  whip 
falling  Upon  their  shoulders  and  tearing  their  sides  and 
cheeks,  their  bodies  twisted  in  painful,  revolted  spasms; 
the  flesh  trembled  under  the  cord  like  the  muscles  of  a 
horse  beneath  the  spur;  and,  in  the  morbid  exaltation  of 
suffering,  a  sort  of  wild  delirium  took  possession  of  them, 
their  arms  were  waved  in  the  air,  their  heads  with  hair 


JULES  CLARETIE 

dishevelled  were  thrown  backward,  and  the  captives, 
uttering  a  sound  at  once  plaintive  and  menacing,  danced, 
their  dance,  at  first  slow  and  melancholy,  becoming 
gradually  active,  nervous,  and  interrupted  by  cries 
which  resembled  sobs.  And  the  Hungarian  czardas, 
symbolizing  thus  the  dance  of  these  martyrs,  kept  still, 
will  always  keep,  the  characteristic  of  contortions  under 
the  lash  of  bygone  days;  and,  slow  and  languishing  at 
first,  then  soon  quick  and  agitated,  tragically  hysterical, 
it  also  is  interrupted  by  melancholy  chords,  dreary, 
mournful  notes  and  plaintive  accents  like  drops  of  blood 
from  a  wound — from  the  mortal  wound  of  Prince  San- 
dor,  lying  there  in  his  martial  uniform. 

The  bronzed  Tzigani,  fantastically  illumined  by  the 
red  glare  of  the  torches,  stood  out  against  the  white  back- 
ground like  demons  of  revenge;  and  the  hymn,  feverish, 
bold,  ardent,  echoed  through  the  snow-covered  branches 
like  a  hurricane  of  victory.  They  were  wandering  mu- 
sicians, who,  the  evening  before,  had  been  discovered  in 
a  neighboring  village  by  some  of  Jellachich's  Croats,  and 
whom  Prince  Sandor  had  unceremoniously  rescued  at 
the  head  of  his  hussars;  and  they  had  come,  with  their 
ancient  national  airs,  the  voice  of  their  country,  to  pay 
their  debt  to  the  fallen  hero. 

When  they  had  finished,  the  wintry  night-wind  bear- 
ing away  the  last  notes  of  their  war-song,  the  pistols  of 
the  hussars  and  the  guns  of  the  honveds  discharged  a 
salute  over  the  grave.  The  earth  and  snow  were  shov- 
elled in  upon  the  body  of  Sandor  Zilah,  and  Prince  An- 
dras  drew  away,  after  marking  with  a  cross  the  place 
where  his  father  reposed. 

[26] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

A  few  paces  away,  he  perceived,  among  the  Tzigani 
musicians,  a  young  girl,  the  only  woman  of  the  tribe, 
who  wept  with  mournful  sobbings  like  the  echoes  of 
the  deserts  of  the  Orient. 

He  wondered  why  the  girl  wept  so  bitterly,  when  he, 
the  son,  could  not  shed  a  tear. 

"Because  Prince  Zilah  Sandor  was  valiant  among  the 
valiant,"  she  replied,  in  answer  to  his  question,  "and  he 
died  because  he  would  not  wear  the  talisman  which  I 
offered  him." 

Andras  looked  at  the  girl. 

"What  talisman?" 

"Some  pebbles  from  the  lakes  of  Tatra,  sewn  up  in  a 
little  leather  bag." 

Andras  knew  what  a  powerful  superstition  is  attached 
by  the  people  of  Hungary  to  these  deep  lakes  of  Tatra, 
the  "  eyes  of  the  sea,"  where,  say  theold  legends,  the  most 
beautiful  carbuncle  in  the  world  lies  hidden,  a  carbuncle 
which  would  sparkle  like  the  sun,  if  it  could  be  discov- 
ered, and  which  is  guarded  by  frogs  with  diamond  eyes 
and  with  lumps  of  pure  gold  for  feet.  He  felt  more 
touched  than  astonished  at  the  superstition  of  the  Tzig- 
ana,  and  at  the  offer  which,  the  evening  before,  Prince 
Sandor  had  refused  with  a  smile. 

"  Give  me  what  you  wished  to  give  my  father,"  he  said. 
"I  will  keep  it  in  memory  of  him." 

A  bright,  joyous  light  flashed  for  a  moment  across  the 
face  of  the  Tzigana.  She  extended  to  the  young  Prince 
the  little  bag  of  leather  containing  several  small,  round 
pebbles  like  grains  of  maize. 

"At  all  events,"  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  "there  will 

[27] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

be  one  Zilah  whom  the  balls  of  the  Croats  will  spate  for 
the  safety  of  Hungary." 

Andtas  slowly  detached  from  his  shoulder  the  silver 
agraffe,  set  with  opals,  which  clasped  his  fur  pelisse,  and 
handed  it  to  the  gypsy,  who  regarded  it  with  admiring 
eyes  as  it  flashed  in  the  red  light. 

"The  day  when  my  father  is  avenged,"  he  said,  "and 
our  Hungary  is  free,  bring  me  this  jewel,  and  you  and 
yours  come  to  the  castle  of  the  Zilahs.  I  will  give  you 
a  life  of  peace  in  memory  of  this  night  of  mourning." 

Already,  at  a  distance,  could  be  heard  a  rapid  fusil- 
lade about  the  outposts.  The  Austrians  had  perhaps 
perceived  the  light  from  the  torches,  and  were  attempt- 
ing a  night  attack. 

"Extinguish  the  torches!"  cried  Yanski  Varhely. 

The  resinous  knots  hissed  as  they  were  thrust  into  the 
snow,  and  the  black,  sinister  night  of  winter,  with  the  cries 
of  the  wind  in  the  branches,  fell  upon  the  troop  of  men, 
ready  to  die  as  their  chief  had  died ;  and  all  disappeared 
^— vision,  phantoms^-theTzigani  silently  taking  refuge  in 
the  sombre  forest,  while  here  and  there  could  be  heard  the 
rattle  of  the  ramrods  as  the  honveds  loaded  their  guns. 

This  January  night  appeared  now  to  Andras  as  an 
almost  fantastic  dream.  Since  then  he  had  erected  a 
mausoleum  of  marble  on  the  very  spot  where  Prince 
Sandor  fell;  and  of  all  the  moments  of  that  romantic, 
picturesque  war,  the  agonizing  moment,  the  wild  scene 
of  the  burial  of  his  father,  was  most  vivid  in  his  memory 
—the  picture  of  the  warrior  stretched  in  the  snow,  his 
hand  on  the  handle  of  his  sword,  remained  before  his 
eyes,  imperishable  in  its  melancholy  majesty. 

[28] 


CHAPTER  V 

"MY  FATHER  WAS  A  AtJSSlAN!" 

;HEN  the  war  was  over,  the  Prince 
roamed  sadly  for  years  about  Europe 
— Europe,  which,  unmindful  of  the 
martyrs,  had  permitted  the  massacre  of 
the  vanquished .  It  was  many  year s  be- 
fore he  could  accustom  himself  to  the 
idea  that  he  had  no  longer  a  country. 
He  counted  always  upon  the  future;  it 
was  impossible  that  fate  would  forever  be  implacable  to 
a  nation.  He  often  repeated  this  to  Yanski  Varhely, 
who  had  never  forsaken  him — Yanski  Varhely,  the 
impoverished  old  hussar,  the  ruined  gentleman,  now 
professor  of  Latin  and  mathematics  at  Paris,  and  living 
near  the  Prince  off  the  product  of  his  lessons  and  a  small 
remnant  he  had  managed  to  save  from  the  wreck  of  his 
property. 

"Hungary  will  spring  up  again,  Yanski;  Hungary  is 
immortal!"    Andras  would  exclaim. 

"Yes,  on  one  condition,"  was  Varhely's  response. 
"She  must  arrive  at  a  comprehension  that  if  she  has 
succumbed,  it  is  because  she  has  committed  faults.  All 
defeats  have  their  geneses.  Before  the  enemy  we  were 
not  a  unit,  There  were  too  many  discussions,  and  not 
enough  action;  such  a  state  of  affairs  is  always  fatal*" 
The  years  brought  happy  changes  to  Hungary.  She 


JULES  CLARETIE 

practically  regained  her  freedom;  by  her  firmness  she 
made  the  conquest  of  her  own  autonomy  by  the  side 
of  Austria.  Deak's  spirit,  in  the  person  of  Andrassy, 
recovered  the  possession  of  power.  But  neither  Andras 
nor  Varhely  returned  to  their  country.  The  Prince  had 
become,  as  he  himself  said  with  a  smile,  "a  Magyar  of 
Paris."  He  grew  accustomed  to  the  intellectual,  re- 
fined life  of  the  French  city;  and  this  was  a  consolation, 
at  times,  for  the  exile  from  his  native  land. 

"It  is  not  a  difficult  thing  to  become  bewitched  with 
Paris,"  he  would  say,,  as  if  to  excuse  himself. 

He  had  no  longer,  it  is  true,  the  magnificent  land- 
scapes of  his  youth;  the  fields  of  maize,  the  steppes, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  clumps  of  wild  roses;  the 
Carpathian  pines,  with  their  sombre  murmur;  and  all 
the  evening  sounds  which  had  been  his  infancy's  lullaby ; 
the  cowbells,  melancholy  and  indistinct ;  the  snapping  of 
the  great  whips  of  the  czikos;  the  mounted  shepherds, 
with  their  hussar  jackets,  crossing  the  plains  where  grew 
the  plants  peculiar  to  the  country;  and  the  broad  hori- 
zons with  the  enormous  arms  of  the  windmills  outlined 
against  the  golden  sunset.  But  Paris,  with  its  ever- 
varying  seductions,  its  activity  in  art  and  science,  its 
perpetual  movement,  had  ended  by  becoming  a  real  need 
to  him,  like  a  new  existence  as  precious  and  as  loved  as 
the  first.  The  soldier  had  become  a  man  of  letters, 
jotting  down  for  himself,  not  for  the  public,  all  that 
struck  him  in  his  observation  and  his  reading;  mingling 
in  all  societies,  knowing  them  all,  but  esteeming  only 
one,  that  of  honest  people;  and  thus  letting  the  years  pass 
by,  without  suspecting  that  they  were  flying,  regarding 

[30]  ' 


himself  somewhat  as  a  man  away  on  a  visit,  and  sud- 
denly awaking  one  fine  morning  almost  old,  wondering 
how  he  had  lived  all  this  time  of  exile  which,  despite 
many  mental  troubles,  seemed  to  him  to  have  lasted 
only  a  few  months. 

"  We  resemble,"  he  said  to  Varhely,  "  those  emigrants 
who  never  unpack  their  boxes,  certain  that  they  are  soon 
to  return  home.  They  wait,  and  some  day,  catching  a 
glimpse  of  themselves  in  a  glass,  they  are  amazed  to  find 
wrinkles  and  gray  hairs." 

No  longer  having  a  home  in  his  own  country,  Prince 
Andras  had  never  dreamed  of  making  another  abroad. 
He  hired  the  sumptuous  hotel  he  inhabited  at  the  top  of 
the  Champs  Elysees,  when  houses  were  rather  scattered 
there.  Fashion,  and  the  ascensional  movement  of  Paris 
toward  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  had  come  to  seek  him. 
His  house  was  rich  in  beautiful  pictures  and  rare  books, 
and  he  sometimes  received  there  his  few  real  friends,  his 
companions  in  troublous  times,  like  Varhely.  He  was 
generally  considered  a  little  of  a  recluse,  although  he 
loved  society  and  showed  himself,  during  the  winter,  at 
all  entertainments  where,  by  virtue  of  his  fame  and  rank, 
he  would  naturally  be  expected  to  be  present.  But  he 
carried  with  him  a  certain  melancholy  and  gravity, 
which  contrasted  strongly  with  the  frivolous  trivialities 
and  meaningless  smiles  of  our  modern  society.  In  the 
summer,  he  usually  passed  two  months  at  the  seashore, 
where  Varhely  frequently  joined  him;  and  upon  the 
leafy  terrace  of  the  Prince's  villa  the  two  friends  had 
long  and  confidential  chats,  as  they  watched  the  sun 
sink  into  the  sea. 


Andras  had  never  thought  of  marrying*  At  first,  he 
had  a  sort  of  feeling  that  he  was  doomed  to  an  early 
death,  ever  expecting  a  renewal  of  the  struggle  with 
Austria;  and  he  thought  at  that  time  that  the  future 
would  bring  to  him  his  father's  fate — a  ball  in  the  fore- 
head and  a  ditch,  Then,  without  knowing  it,  he  had 
reached  and  passed  his  fortieth  year. 

"Now  it  is  too  late,"  he  said,  gayly.  "The  psycho- 
logical moment  is  long  gone  by.  We  shall  both  end  old 
bachelors,  my  good  Varhely,  and  spend  our  evenings 
playing  checkers,  that  mimic  warfare  of  old  men." 

"Yes,  that  is  all  very  well  for  me,  who  have  no  very 
famous  name  to  perpetuate;  but  the  Zilahs  should  not 
end  with  you.  I  want  some  sturdy  little  hussar  whom 
I  can  teach  to  sit  a  horse,  and  who  also  will  call  me  his 
good  old  Yanski." 

The  Prince  smiled,  and  then  replied,  gravely,  almost 
sadly :  "  I  greatly  fear  that  one  can  not  love  two  things  at 
once;  the  heart  is  not  elastic.  I  chose  Hungary  for  my 
bride,  and  my  life  must  be  that  of  a  widower." 

In  the  midst  of  the  austere  and  thoughtful  life  he  led, 
Andras  preserved,  nevertheless,  a  sort  of  youthful  buoy- 
ancy. Many  men  of  thirty  were  less  fresh  in  mind  and 
body  than  he.  He  was  one  of  those  beings  who  die,  as 
they  have  lived,  children:  even  the  privations  of  the 
hardest  kind  of  an  existence  can  not  take  away  from 
them  that  purity  and  childlike  trust  which  seem  to  be 
an  integral  part  of  themselves,  and  which,  although 
they  may  be  betrayed,  deceived  and  treated  harshly  by 
life,  they  never  wholly  lose;  very  manly  and  heroic  in 
time  of  need  and  danger,  they  are  by  nature  peculiarly 

[32] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

exposed  to  treasons  and  deceptions  which  astonish  but 
do  not  alter  them.  Since  man,  in  the  progress  of  time, 
must  either  harden  or  break  to  pieces,  the  hero  in  them 
is  of  iron;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  their  hearts  are  easily 
wounded  by  the  cruel  hand  of  some  woman  or  the  care- 
less one  of  a  child. 

Andras  Zilah  had  not  yet  loved  deeply,  as  it  was  in  his 
nature  to  love.  More  or  less  passing  caprices  had  not 
dried  up  the  spring  of  real  passion  which  was  at  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart.  But  he  had  not  sought  this  love;  for 
he  adored  his  Hungary  as  he  would  have  loved  a  wo- 
man, and  the  bitter  recollection  of  her  defeat  gave  him 
the  impression  of  a  love  that  had  died  or  been  cruelly 
betrayed. 

Yanski,  on  the  whole,  had  not  greatly  troubled  him- 
self to  demonstrate  mathematically  or  philosophically 
that  a  " hussar  pupil"  was  an  absolute  necessity  to  him. 
People  can  not  be  forced,  against  their  will,  to  marry; 
and  the  Prince,  after  all,  was  free,  if  he  chose,  to  let  the 
name  of  Zilah  die  with  him. 

" Taking  life  as  it  is,"  old  Varhely  would  growl,  "per- 
haps it  isn't  necessary  to  bring  into  the  world  little  be- 
ings who  never  asked  to  come  here.  And  yet" — 
breaking  off  in  his  pessimism,  and  with  a  vision  before 
his  eyes  of  another  Andras,  young,  handsome,  leading 
his  hussars  to  the  charge — "and  yet,  it  is  a  pity,  An- 
dras, it  is  a  pity." 

The  decisions  of  men  are  more  often  dependent  upon 
chance  than  upon  then*  own  will.  Prince  Andras  re- 
ceived an  invitation  to  dinner  one  day  from  the  little 
Baroness  Dinati,  whom  he  liked  very  much,  and  whose 
3  [33] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

husband,  Orso  Dinati,  one  of  the  defenders  of  Venice 
in  the  time  of  Manin,  had  been  his  intimate  friend. 
The  house  of  the  Baroness  was  a  very  curious  place;  the 
reporter  Jacquemin,  who  was  there  at  all  times,  testing 
the  wines  and  correcting  the  menus,  would  have  called 
it  "bizarre."  The  Baroness  received  people  in  all  cir- 
cles of  society;  oddities  liked  her,  and  she  did  not  dis- 
like oddities.  Very  honest,  very  spirituelle,  an  excel- 
lent woman  at  heart,  she  gave  evening  parties,  readings 
from  unheard-of  books,  and  performances  of  the  works 
of  unappreciated  musicians;  and  the  reporters,  who 
came  to  absorb  her  salads  and  drink  her  punch,  laughed 
at  her  in  their  journals  before  their  supper  was  di- 
gested. 

The  Prince,  as  we  have  said,  was  very  fond  of  the 
Baroness,  with  an  affection  which  was  almost  fraternal.. 
He  pardoned  her  childishness  and  her  little  absurdities 
for  the  sake  of  her  great  good  qualities.  "My  dear 
Prince,"  she  said  to  him  one  day,  "do  you  know  that  I 
would  throw  myself  into  the  fire  for  you?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it;  but  there  would  not  be  any  great 
merit  in  your  doing  so." 

"And  why  not,  please?" 

"  Because  you  would  not  run  any  risk  of  being  burned. 
This  must  be  so,  because  you  receive  in  your  house  a 
crowd  of  highly  suspicious  people,  and  no  one  has  ever 
suspected  you  yourself.  You  are  a  little  salamander, 
the  prettiest  salamander  I  ever  met.  You  live  in  fire, 
and  you  have  neither  upon  your  face  nor  your  reputa- 
tion the  slightest  little  scorch." 

"Then  you  think  that  my  guests  arc"- 

[34] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"Charming.  Only,  they  are  of  two  kinds:  those 
whom  I  esteem,  and  who  do  not  amuse  me — often ;  and 
those  who  amuse  me,  and  whom  I  esteem — never." 

"I  suppose  you  will  not  come  any  more  to  the  Rue 
Murillo,  then?" 

"Certainly  I  shall — to  see  you." 

And  it  really  was  to  see  her  that  the  Prince  went  to  the 
Baroness  Dinati's,  where  his  melancholy  characteristics 
clashed  with  so  many  worldly  follies  and  extravagances. 
The  Baroness  seemed  to  have  a  peculiar  faculty  in  choos- 
ing extraordinary  guests :  Peruvians,  formerly  dictators, 
now  become  insurance  agents,  or  generals  transformed 
into  salesmen  for  some  wine  house;  Cuban  chiefs  half 
shot  to  pieces  by  the  Spaniards;  Cretes  exiled  by  the 
Turks;  great  personages  from  Constantinople,  escaped 
from  the  Sultan's  silken  bowstring,  and  displaying 
proudly  their  red  fez  in  Paris,  where  the  opera  permitted 
them  to  continue  their  habits  of  polygamy ;  Americans, 
whose  gold-mines  or  petroleum-wells  made  them  billion- 
aires for  a  winter,  only  to  go  to  pieces  and  make  them 
paupers  the  following  summer;  politicians  out  of  a  place; 
unknown  authors;  misunderstood  poets;  painters  of  the 
future  —  in  short,  the  greater  part  of  the  people  who 
were  invited  by  Prince  Andras  to  his  water-party,  Bar- 
oness Dinati  having  pleaded  for  her  friends  and  obtained 
for  them  cards  of  invitation.  It  was  a  sort  of  ragout 
of  real  and  shady  celebrities,  an  amusing,  bustling 
crowd,  half  Bohemian,  half  aristocratic,  entirely  cosmo- 
politan. Prince  Andras  remembered  once  having  dined 
with  a  staff  officer  of  Garibaldi's  army  on  one  side  of 
him,  and  the  Pope's  nuncio  on  the  other. 

[35] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

On  a  certain  evening  the  Baroness  was  very  anxious 
that  the  Prince  should  not  refuse  her  latest  invitation. 

"  I  am  arranging  a  surprise  for  you , ' '  she  said .  "I  am 
going  to  have  to  dinner" 

"Whom?    The  Mikado?    The  Shah  of  Persia?" 

"Better  than  the  Mikado.  A  charming  young  girl 
who  admires  you  profoundly,  for  she  knows  by  heart  the 
whole  history  of  your  battles  of  1849.  She  has  read 
Georgei,  Klapka,  and  all  the  rest  of  them ;  and  she  is  so 
thoroughly  Bohemian  in  heart,  soul  and  race,  that  she  is 
universally  called  the  Tzigana." 

"The  Tzigana?" 

This  simple  word,  resembling  the  clank  of  cymbals, 
brought  up  to  Prince  Andras  a  whole  world  of  recollec- 
tions. Hussad  czigany!  The  rallying  cry  of  the  wan- 
dering musicians  of  the  puszta  had  some  element  in  it 
like  the  cherished  tones  of  the  distant  bells  of  his  father- 
land. 

"Ah!  yes,  indeed,  my  dear  Baroness,"  he  said;  "that 
is  a  charming  surprise.  I  need  not  ask  if  your  Tzigana 
is  pretty;  all  the  Tzigani  of  my  country  are  adorable, 
and  I  am  sure  I  shall  fall  in  love  with  her." 

The  Prince  had  no  notion  how  prophetic  his  words 
were.  The  Tzigana,  whom  the  Baroness  requested  him 
to  take  hi  to  dinner,  was  Marsa,  Marsa  Laszlo,  dressed 
in  one  of  the  black  toilettes  which  she  affected,  and 
whose  clear,  dark  complexion,  great  Arabian  eyes,  and 
heavy,  wavy  hair  seemed  to  Andras's  eyes  to  be  the  in- 
carnation, in  a  prouder  and  more  refined  type,  of  the 
warm,  supple,  nervous  beauty  of  the  girls  of  his  country. 

He  was  surprised  and  strangely  fascinated,  attracted 

[36] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

by  the  incongruous  mixture  of  extreme  refinement  and 
a  sort  of  haughty  unconventionality  he  found  in  Marsa. 
A  moment  before,  he  had  noticed  how  silent,  almost 
rigid  she  was,  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  armchair;  but 
now  this  same  face  was  strangely  animated,  illumined 
by  some  happy  emotion,  and  her  eyes  burned  like  coals 
of  fire  as  she  fixed  them  upon  Andras. 

During  the  whole  dinner,  the  rest  of  the  dining-room 
disappeared  to  the  Prince;  he  saw  only  the  girl  at  his 
side;  and  the  candles  and  polished  mirrors  were  only 
there  to  form  a  sparkling  background  for  her  pale,  mid- 
night beauty. 

"  Do  you  know,  Prince,"  said  Marsa,  in  her  rich,  warm 
contralto  voice,  whose  very  accents  were  like  a  caress, 
"do  you  know  that,  among  all  those  who  fought  for 
our  country,  you  are  the  one  admiration  of  my  life?" 

He  smiled,  and  mentioned  more  illustrious  names. 

"No,  no,"  she  answered;  "those  are  not  the  names  I 
care  for,  but  yours.  I  will  tell  you  why." 

And  she  recalled,  in  a  voice  vibrating  with  emotion, 
all  that  Prince  Zilah  Sandor  and  his  son  had  attempted, 
twenty  years  before,  for  the  liberty  of  Hungary.  She 
told  the  whole  story  in  the  most  vivid  manner;  had  her 
age  permitted  her  to  have  been  present  at  those  battles, 
she  could  not  have  related  them  with  more  spirited  en- 
thusiasm. 

"I  know,  perfectly,  how,  at  the  head  of  your  hussars, 
you  wrested  from  the  soldiers  of  Jellachich  the  first 
standard  captured  by  the  Hungarians  from  the  ranks  of 
Austria.  Shall  I  tell  you  the  exact  date  ?  and  the  day  of 
the  week?  It  was  Thursday." 

[37] 

377308 


The  whole  history,  ignored,  forgotten,  lost  in  the 
smoke  of  more  recent  wars,  the  strange,  dark-eyed  girl, 
knew  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour;  and  there,  in  that 
Parisian  dining-room,  surrounded  by  all  that  crowd, 
where  yesterday's  bon  mot,  the  latest  scandal,  the  new 
operetta,  were  subjects  of  paramount  importance,  An- 
dras,  voluntarily  isolated,  saw  again,  present  and  living, 
his  whole  heroic  past  rise  up  before  him,  as  beneath  the 
wave  of  a  fairy's  wand. 

"But  how  do  you  know  me  so  well ?"  he  asked,  fixing 
his  clear  eyes  upon  Marsa  Laszlo's  face.  "Was  your 
father  one  of  my  soldiers?" 

"My  father  was  a  Russian,"  responded  Marsa, 
abruptly,  her  voice  suddenly  becoming  harsh  and  cut- 
ting. 

"A  Russian?" 

"Yes,  a  Russian,"  she  repeated,  emphasizing  the 
word  writh  a  sort  of  dull  anger.  "My  mother  alone  was 
a  Tzigana,  and  my  mother's  beauty  was  part  of  the 
spoils  of  those  who  butchered  your  soldiers?" 

In  the  uproar  of  conversation,  which  became  more 
animated  with  the  dessert,  she  could  not  tell  him  of  the 
sorrows  of  her  life ;  and  yet,  he  guessed  there  was  some 
sad  story  in  the  life  of  the  young  girl,  and  almost  im- 
plored her  to  speak,  stopping  just  at  the  limit  where 
sympathy  might  change  into  indiscretion. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  as  she  was  silent,  with  a 
dark  shadow  overspreading  her  face.  "I  have  no  right 
to  know  your  life  simply  because  you  are  so  well  ac- 
quainted with  mine." 

"Oh!  you!"  she  said,  with  a  sad  smile;  "your  life  is 

[38] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

history;  mine  is  drama,  melodrama  even.  There  is  a 
great  difference." 

"Pardon  my  presumption!" 

"Oh!  I  will  willingly  tell  you  of  my  life,  if  the  ex- 
istence of  a  useless  being  like  myself  can  interest  you; 
but  not  here  in  the  noise  of  this  dinner.  It  would  be 
absurd,"  with  a  change  of  tone,  "to  mingle  tears  with 
champagne.  By-and-bye!  By-and-bye!" 

She  made  an  evident  effort  to  appear  gay,  like  the 
pretty  women  who  were  there,  and  who,  despite  their 
prettiness,  seemed  to  Andras  perfectly  insignificant ;  but 
she  did  not  succeed  in  driving  away  the  cloud  of  sadness 
which  overshadowed  her  exquisite,  dark  face.  And  in 
the  ears  of  the  Prince  rang  again  the  bitter  accents  of 
that  voice  saying  in  a  harsh,  almost  revolted  tone: 
"Yes,  a  Russian!  My  father  was  a  Russian!" 


[39] 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  GYPSY  PRINCESS 


mystery  which  seemed  to  envelop 
Marsa,  the  flash  of  anger  with  which 
she  had  spoken  of  the  Russian  who 
was  her  father,  all  attracted  the  Prince 
toward  her;  and  he  experienced  a  de- 
liciously  disquieting  sentiment,  as  if 
the  secret  of  this  girl's  existence  were 
now  grafted  upon  his  own  life. 
She  seemed  to  have  no  wish  to  keep  her  secret  from 
him.  At  their  first  meeting,  during  the  conversation 
which  followed  the  dinner  and  the  musical  exhibition 
given  by  extraordinary  musicians  with  long,  unkempt 
locks,  Marsa,  trusting  with  a  sort  of  joy  to  the  one 
whom  she  regarded  as  a  hero,  told  Prince  Andras  the 
story  of  her  life. 

She  related  to  him  the  assault  made  by  soldiers  of 
Paskiewich  upon  the  little  Hungarian  village,  and  how 
her  grandfather,  leaving  his  czimbalom,  had  fired  upon 
the  Russians  from  the  ranks  of  the  honveds.  There 
was  a  combat,  or  rather  a  butchery,  in  the  sole  street  of 
the  town,  —  one  of  the  last  massacres  of  the  campaign. 
The  Russians  destroyed  everything,  shooting  down  the 
prisoners,  and  burning  the  poor  little  houses.  There 
were  some  women  among  the  Hungarians  and  Tzigani; 

[40] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

they  had  loaded  the  guns  of  the  wounded,  comforted 
the  dying  and  avenged  the  dead.  Many  of  them  were 
killed.  One  of  them,  the  youngest  and  prettiest,  a 
gypsy,  was  seized  by  the  Russian  officer,  and,  when 
peace  was  declared  soon  after,  carried  off  by  him  to 
Russia.  This  was  Tisza  Laszlo,  Marsa's  mother.  The 
officer,  a  great  Russian  nobleman,  a  handsome  fellow 
and  extremely  rich,  really  loved  her  with  a  mad  sort  of 
love.  He  forced  her  to  become  his  mistress;  but  he 
tried  in  every  way  to  make  her  pardon  the  brutality  of  his 
passion;  keeping  her  half  a  captive  in  his  castle  near 
Moscow,  and  yet  offering  her,  by  way  of  expiation,  not 
only  his  fortune  but  his  name,  the  princely  title  of  which 
the  Tchereteffs,  his  ancestors,  had  been  so  proud,  and 
which  the  daughter  of  wandering  Tzigani  refused  with 
mingled  hatred  and  disgust.  Princess?  She,  the  gypsy, 
a  Russian  princess  ?  The  title  would  have  appeared  to 
her  like  a  new  and  still  more  abhorrent  stigma.  He 
implored  her,  but  she  was  obdurate.  It  was  a  strange, 
tragic  existence  these  two  beings  led,  shut  up  in  the  im- 
mense castle,  from  the  windows  of  which  Tisza  could 
perceive  the  gilded  domes  of  Moscow,  the  superb  city 
in  which  she  would  never  set  her  foot,  preferring  the 
palace,  sad  and  gloomy  as  a  cell.  Alone  in  the  world, 
the  sole  survivor  of  her  massacred  tribe,  the  Russians  to 
her  were  the  murderers  of  her  people,  the  assassins  of 
the  free  musicians  with  eagle  profiles  she  used  to  follow 
as  they  played  the  czardas  from  village  to  village. 

She  never  saw  Prince  Tchereteff,  handsome,  generous, 
charming,  loving  her  and  trembling  before  her  glance 
although  he  had  ruthlessly  kidnapped  her  from  her  coun- 


JULES  CLARETIE 

try,  that  she  did  not  think  of  him,  sword  in  hand,  enter- 
ing the  burning  Hungarian  village,  his  face  reddened  by 
the  flames,  as  the  bayonets  of  his  soldiers  were  reddened 
with  blood.  She  hated  this  tall  young  man,  his  droop- 
ing moustache,  his  military  uniform,  his  broad  figure,  his 
white-gloved  hands:  he  represented  to  the  imprisoned 
Tzigana  the  conqueror  and  murderer  of  her  people. 
And  yet  a  daughter  was  born  to  them.  She  had  defend- 
ed herself  with  the  cries  of  a  tigress;  and  then  she  had 
longed  to  die,  to  die  of  hunger,  since,  a  close  prisoner, 
she  could  not  obtain  possession  of  a  weapon,  nor  cast 
herself  into  the  water.  She  had  lived,  nevertheless,  and 
then  her  daughter  reconciled  her  to  life.  The  child 
which  was  born  to  her  was  all  in  all  to  Tizsa.  Marsa 
was  an  exact  reproduction,  feature  by  feature,  of  her 
mother,  and,  strange  to  say,  daughters  generally  re- 
sembling the  father,  had  nothing  of  Tchereteff,  nothing 
Russian  about  her:  on  the  contrary,  she  was  all  Tzigana 
—Tzigana  in  the  clear  darkness  of  her  skin,  in  her  vel- 
vety eyes,  and  her  long,  waving  black  hair,  with  its 
bronze  reflections,  which  the  mother  loved  to  wind  about 
her  thin  fingers. 

Her  beauty,  faded  by  long,  slow  sorrow,  Tisza  found 
again  in  her  child,  a  true  daughter  of  Hungary  like  her- 
self; and,  as  Marsa  grew  up,  she  told  her  the  legends, 
the  songs,  the  heroism,  the  martyrdom,  of  Hungary,  pic- 
turing to  the  little  girl  the  great,  grassy  plain,  the  free 
puszta,  peopled  with  a  race  in  whose  proud  language  the 
word  honor  recurs  again  and  again. 

Marsa  grew  up  in  the  Muscovite  castle,  loving  nothing 
in  the  world  except  her  mother,  and  regarding  with 

[4*] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

frightened  eyes  the  blond  stranger  who  sometimes  took 
her  upon  his  knees  and  gazed  sadly  into  her  face.  Be- 
fore this  man,  who  was  her  father,  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
in  the  presence  of  an  enemy.  As  Tisza  never  went  out, 
Marsa  rarely  quitted  the  castle;  and,  when  she  went  to 
Moscow,  she  hastened  to  return  to  her  mother.  The 
very  gayeties  of  that  noisy  city  weighed  upon  her  heart ; 
for  she  never  forgot  the  war-tales  of  the  Tzigana,  and, 
perhaps,  among  the  passers-by  was  the  wretch  who  had 
shot  down  her  grandfather,  old  Mihal. 

The  Tzigana  cultivated,  with  a  sort  of  passion,  a  love 
of  far-off  Hungary  and  a  hatred  for  the  master  in  the 
impressionable  mind  of  her  daughter.  There  is  a  Ser- 
vian proverb  which  says,  that  when  a  Wallachian  has 
crossed  the  threshold  the  whole  house  becomes  Wal- 
lachian. Tisza  did  not  wish  the  house  to  become 
Hungarian ;  but  she  did  wish  that  the  child  of  her  loins 
should  be  and  should  remain  Hungarian. 

The  servants  of  Prince  Tchereteff  never  spoke  of  their 
mistress  except  as  The  Tzigana,  and  this  was  the  name 
which  Marsa  wished  to  bear  also.  It  seemed  to  her  like 
a  title  of  nobility. 

And  the  years  passed  without  the  Tzigana  pardoning 
the  Russian,  and  without  Marsa  ever  having  called  him 
father. 

In  the  name  of  their  child,  the  Prince  one  day  sol- 
emnly asked  Tisza  Laszlo  to  consent  to  become  his 
wife,  and  the  mother  refused. 

"But  our  daughter?"  said  the  Prince. 

"My  daughter?  She  will  bear  the  name  of  her 
mother,  which  at  least  is  not  a  Russian  name," 

[43] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

The  Prince  was  silenced. 

As  Marsa  grew  up,  Moscow  became  displeasing  to  the 
Prince.  He  had  his  daughter  educated  as  if  she  were 
destined  to  be  the  Czarina.  He  summoned  to  the  castle 
a  small  army  of  instructors,  professors  of  music  and 
singing;  French,  English,  and  German  masters,  drawing 
masters,  etc.,  etc.  The  young  girl,  with  the  prodigious 
power  of  assimilation  peculiar  to  her  race,  learned  every- 
thing, loving  knowledge  for  its  own  sake,  but,  neverthe- 
less, always  deeply  moved  by  the  history  of  that  un- 
known country,  which  was  that  of  her  mother,  and  even 
her  own,  the  land  of  her  heart  and  her  soul — Hungary. 
She  knew,  from  her  mother,  about  all  its  heroes:  Klapka, 
Georgei,  Dembiski;  Bern,  the  conqueror  of  Buda;  Kos- 
suth,  the  dreamer  of  a  sort  of  feudal  liberty;  and  those 
chivalrous  Zilah  princes,  father  and  son,  the  fallen  mar- 
tyr and  the  living  hero. 

Prince  Tchereteff,  French  in  education  and  sentiment, 
wished  to  take  to  France  the  child,  who  did  not  bear  his 
name,  but  whom  he  adored.  France  also  exercised  a 
powerful  fascination  over  Marsa's  imagination ;  and  she 
departed  joyously  for  Paris,  accompanied  by  the  Tzig- 
ana,  her  mother,  who  felt  like  a  prisoner  set  at  liberty. 
To  quit  Russian  soil  was  in  itself  some  consolation,  and 
who  knew  ?  perhaps  she  might  again  see  her  dear  father- 
land. 

Tisza,  in  fact,  breathed  more  freely  in  Paris,  repeating 
however,  like  a  mournful  refrain,  the  proverb  of  her 
country:  Away  from  Hungary,  life  is  not  lije.  The 
Prince  purchased,  at  Maisons-Lafitte,  not  far  from  the 
forest  of  Saint- Germain,  a  house  surrounded  by  an  im- 

[44] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

mense  garden.  Here,  as  formerly  at  Moscow,  Tisza 
and  the  Prince  lived  together,  and  yet  apart — the  Tzig- 
ana,  implacable  in  her  resentment,  bitterly  refusing  all 
pardon  to  the  Russian,  and  always  keeping  alive  in 
Marsa  a  hatred  of  all  that  was  Muscovite;  the  Prince, 
disconsolate,  gloomy,  discouraged  between  the  woman 
whom  he  adored  and  whose  heart  he  could  not  win,  and 
the  girl,  so  wonderfully  beautiful,  the  living  portrait  of 
her  mother,  and  who  treated  him  with  the  cold  respect 
one  shows  to  a  stranger. 

Not  long  after  their  arrival  in  Paris,  a  serious  heart 
trouble  attacked  Marsa 's  father.  He  summoned  to  his 
deathbed  the  Tzigana  and  her  daughter;  and,  in  a  sort 
of  supreme  confession,  he  openly  asked  his  child,  be- 
fore the  mother,  to  forgive  him  for  her  birth. 

"Marsa,"  he  said,  slowly,  "your  birth,  which  should 
make  the  joy  of  my  existence,  is  the  remorse  of  my 
whole  life.  But  I  am  dying  of  the  love  which  I  can  not 
conquer.  Will  you  kiss  me  as  a  token  that  you  have 
pardoned  me?" 

For  the  first  time,  perhaps,  Marsa's  lips,  trembling 
with  emotion,  then  touched  the  Prince's  forehead.  But, 
before  kissing  him,  her  eyes  had  sought  those  of  her 
mother,  who  bowed  her  head  in  assent. 

"And  you,"  murmured  the  dying  Prince,  "will  you 
forgive  me,  Tisza?" 

The  Tzigana  saw  again  her  native  village  in  flames, 
her  brothers  dead,  her  father  murdered,  and  this  man, 
now  lying  thin  and  pale  amid  the  pillows,  erect,  with 
sabre  drawn,  crying:  "Courage!  Charge!  Forward!" 

Then  she  saw  herself  dragged  almost  beneath  a  horse's 

[45] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

hoofs,  cast  into  a  wagon  with  wrists  bound  together,  car- 
ried in  the  rear  of  an  army  with  the  rest  of  the  victor's 
spoils,  and  immured  within  Russian  walls.  She  felt 
again  on  her  lips  the  degradation  of  the  first  kiss  of  this 
man  whose  suppliant,  pitiful  love  was  hideous  to  her. 
She  made  a  step  toward  the  dying  man  as  if  to  force 
herself  to  whisper,  "I  forgive  you;"  but  all  the  resent- 
ment and  suffering  of  her  life  mounted  to  her  heart, 
almost  stifling  her,  and  she  paused,  going  no  farther, 
and  regarding  with  a  haggard  glance  the  man  whose 
eyes  implored  her  pardon,  and  who,  after  raising  his 
pale  face  from  the  pillow,  let  his  head  fall  back  again 
with  one  long,  weary  sigh. 


1461 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  STORY  OF  MARSA 

'RINCE  TCHERETEFF  left  his  whole 

fortune  to  Marsa  Laszlo,  leaving  her 
in  the  hands  of  his  uncle  Vogotzine, 
an  old,  ruined  General,  whose  property 
had  been  confiscated  by  the  Czar,  and 
who  lived  in  Paris  half  imbecile  with 
fear,  having  become  timid  as  a  child 
since  his  release  from  Siberia,  where 
he  had  been  sent  on  some  pretext  or  other,  no  one  knew 
exactly  the  reason  why. 

It  had  been  necessary  to  obtain  the  sovereign  inter- 
vention of  the  Czar — that  Czar  whose  will  is  the  sole  law, 
a  law  above  laws — to  permit  Prince  Tchereteff  to  give 
his  property  to  a  foreigner,  a  girl  without  a  name.  The 
state  would  gladly  have  seized  upon  the  fortune,  as  the 
Prince  had  no  other  relative  save  an  outlaw;  but  the 
Czar  graciously  gave  his  permission,  and  Marsa  in- 
herited. 

Old  General  Vogotzine  was,  in  fact,  the  only  living 
relative  of  Prince  Tchereteff.  In  consideration  of  a 
yearly  income,  the  Prince  charged  him  to  watch  over 
Marsa,  and  see  to  her  establishment  in  life.  Rich  as 
she  was,  Marsa  would  have  no  lack  of  suitors;  but 
Tisza,  the  half-civilised  Tzigana,  was  not  the  one  to 

[47] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

guide  and  protect  a  young  girl  in  Paris.  The  Prince  be- 
lieved Vogotzine  to  be  less  old  and  more  acquainted 
with  Parisian  life  than  he  really  was,  and  it  was  a  con- 
solation to  the  father  to  feel  that  his  daughter  would 
have  a  guardian. 

Tisza  did  not  long  survive  the  Prince.  She  died  in 
that  Russian  house,  every  stone  of  which  she  hated, 
even  to  the  Muscovite  crucifix  over  the  door,  which  her 
faith,  however,  forbade  her  to  have  removed;  she  died 
making  her  daughter  swear  that  the  last  slumber  which 
was  coming  to  her,  gently  lulling  her  to  rest  after  so 
much  suffering,  should  be  slept  in  Hungarian  soil;  and, 
after  the  Tzigana's  death,  this  young  girl  of  twenty, 
alone  with  Vogotzine,  who  accompanied  her  on  the 
gloomy  journey  with  evident  displeasure,  crossed 
France,  went  to  Vienna,  sought  in  the  Hungarian  plain 
the  place  where  one  or  two  miserable  huts  and  some 
crumbling  walls  alone  marked  the  site  of  the  village 
burned  long  ago  by  Tchereteff's  soldiers;  and  there,  in 
Hungarian  soil,  close  to  the  spot  where  the  men  of  her 
tribe  had  been  shot  down,  she  buried  the  Tzigana, 
whose  daughter  she  so  thoroughly  felt  herself  to  be, 
that,  hi  breathing  the  air  of  the  puszta,  she  seemed  to 
find  again  in  that  beloved  land  something  already  seen, 
like  a  vivid  memory  of  a  previous  existence. 

And  yet,  upon  the  grave  of  the  martyr,  Marsa  prayed 
also  for  the  executioner.  She  remembered  that  the  one 
who  reposed  in  the  cemetery  of  Pere-Lachaise,  beneath 
a  tomb  in  the  shape  of  a  Russian  dome,  was  her  father, 
as  the  Tzigana,  interred  in  Hungary,  was  her  mother; 
and  she  asked  in  her  prayer,  that  these  two  beings,  sepa,- 

[48] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

rated  in  life,  should  pardon  each  other  in  the  unknown, 
obscure  place  of  departed  souls. 

So  Marsa  Laszlo  was  left  alone  in  the  world.  She  re- 
turned to  France,  which  she  had  become  attached  to, 
and  shut  herself  up  in  the  villa  of  Maisons-Lafitte,  let- 
ting old  Vogotzine  install  himself  there  as  a  sort  of 
Mentor,  more  obedient  than  a  servant,  and  as  silent  as 
a  statue;  and  this  strange  guardian,  who  had  formerly 
fought  side  by  side  with  Schamyl,  and  cut  down  the  Cir- 
cassians with  the  sang-froid  of  a  butcher's  boy  wringing 
the  neck  of  a  fowl,  and  who  now  scarcely  dared  to  open 
his  lips,  as  if  the  entire  police  force  of  the  Czar  had  its 
eye  upon  him ;  this  old  soldier,  who  once  cared  nothing 
for  privations,  now,  provided  he  had  his  chocolate  in 
the  morning,  his  kiimmel  with  his  coffee  at  breakfast, 
and  a  bottle  of  brandy  on  the  table  all  day — left  Marsa 
free  to  think,  act,  come  and  go  as  she  pleased. 

She  had  accepted  the  Prince's  legacy,  but  with  this 
mental  reservation  and  condition,  that  the  Hungarian 
colony  of  Paris  should  receive  half  of  it.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  the  money  thus  given  to  succor  the  compatri- 
ots of  her  mother  would  be  her  father's  atonement.  She 
waited,  therefore,  until  she  had  attained  her  majority; 
and  then  she  sent  this  enormous  sum  to  the  Hungarian 
aid  society,  saying  that  the  donor  requested  that  part  of 
the  amount  should  be  used  in  rebuilding  the  little  vil- 
lage in  Transylvania  which  had  been  burned  twenty 
years  before  by  Russian  troops.  When  they  asked 
what  name  should  be  attached  to  so  princely  a  gift, 
Marsa  replied:  "That  which  was  my  mother's  and 
which  is  mine,  The  Tzigana."  More  than  ever  now 
4  [49] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

did  she  cling  to  that  cognomen  of  which  she  was  so 
proud. 

"And,"  she  said  to  Zilah,  after  she  had  finished  the 
recital  of  her  story,  "  it  is  because  I  am  thus  named  that 
I  have  the  right  to  speak  to  you  of  yourself." 

Prince  Andras  listened  with  passionate  attention  to 
the  beautiful  girl,  thus  evoking  for  him  the  past,  confi- 
dent and  even  happy  to  speak  and  make  herself  known 
to  the  man  whose  life  of  heroic  devotion  she  knew  so 
well. 

He  was  not  astonished  at  her  sudden  frankness,  at  the 
confidence  displayed  at  a  first  meeting;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  long  been  acquainted  with  this  Tzig- 
ana,  whose  very  name  he  had  been  ignorant  of  a  few 
hours  before.  It  appeared  to  him  quite  simple  that 
Marsa  should  confide  in  him,  as  he  on  his  side  would 
have  related  to  her  his  whole  life,  if  she  had  asked  it 
with  a  glance  from  her  dark  eyes.  He  felt  that  he  had 
reached  one  of  the  decisive  moments  of  his  life.  Marsa 
called  up  visions  of  his  youth — his  first  tender  dreams 
of  love,  rudely  broken  by  the  harsh  voice  of  war;  and 
he  felt  as  he  used  to  feel,  in  the  days  long  gone  by,  when 
he  sat  beneath  the  starry  skies  of  a  summer  night  and 
listened  to  the  old,  heart-stirring  songs  of  his  country 
and  the  laughter  of  the  brown  maidens  of  Budapest. 

"Prince,"  said  Marsa  Laszlo,  suddenly,  "do  you 
know  that  I  have  been  seeking  you  for  a  long  time,  and 
that  when  the  Baroness  Dinati  presented  you  to  me, 
she  fulfilled  one  of  my  most  ardent  desires?" 

"Me,  Mademoiselle?  You  have  been  seeking 
me?" 

[So] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"  Yes,  you.  Tisza,  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you,  my  Tzig- 
ana  mother,  who  bore  the  name  of  the  blessed  river  of 
our  country,  taught  me  to  repeat  your  name.  She  met 
you  years  ago,  in  the  saddest  moment  of  your  life." 

"Your  mother?"  said  Andras,  waiting  anxiously  for 
the  young  girl  to  continue. 

"Yes,  my  mother." 

She  pointed  to  the  buckle  which  clasped  the  belt  of 
her  dress. 

"See,"  she  said. 

Andras  felt  a  sudden  pang,  which  yet  was  not  alto- 
gether pain,  dart  through  his  heart,  and  his  eyes  wan- 
dered questioningly  from  the  buckle  to  Marsa's  face. 
Smiling,  but  her  beautiful  lips  mute,  Marsa  seemed  to 
say  to  him:  "Yes,  it  is  the  agraffe  which  you  detached 
from  your  soldier's  pelisse  and  gave  to  an  unknown 
Tzigana  near  your  father's  grave." 

The  silver  ornament,  incrusted  with  opals,  recalled 
sharply  to  Prince  Zilah  that  sad  January  night  when  the 
dead  warrior  had  been  laid  in  his  last  resting-place. 
He  saw  again  the  sombre  spot,  the  snowy  fir-trees, 
the  black  trench,  and  the  broad,  red  reflections  of  the 
torches,  which,  throwing  a  flickering  light  upon  the 
dead,  seemed  to  reanimate  the  pale,  cold  face. 

And  that  daughter  of  the  wandering  musicians  who 
had,  at  the  open  grave,  played  as  a  dirge,  or,  rather,  as 
a  ringing  hymn  of  resurrection  and  deliverance,  the 
chant  of  the  fatherland — that  dark  girl  to  whom  he  had 
said :  "  Bring  me  this  jewel,  and  come  and  live  in  peace 
with  the  Zilahs" — was  the  mother  of  this  beautiful,  fas- 
cinating creature,  whose  every  word,  since  he  had  first 


JULES  CLARETIE 

met  her  a  few  hours  before,  had  exercised  such  a  power- 
ful effect  upon  him. 

"So,"  he  said,  slowly,  with  a  sad  smile,  "your  moth- 
er's talisman  was  worth  more  than  mine.  I  have  kept 
the  lake  pebbles  she  gave  me,  and  death  has  passed  me 
by;  but  the  opals  of  the  agraffe  did  not  bring  happiness 
to  your  mother.  It  is  said  that  those  stones  are  unlucky. 
Are  you  superstitious?" 

"I  should  not  be  Tisza's  daughter  if  I  did  not  believe 
a  little  in  all  that  is  romantic,  fantastic,  improbable, 
impossible  even.  Besides,  the  opals  are  forgiven  now: 
for  they  have  permitted  me  to  show  you  that  you  were 
not  unknown  to  me,  Prince;  and,  as  you  see,  I  wear 
this  dear  agraffe  always.  It  has  a  double  value  to  me, 
since  it  recalls  the  memory  of  my  poor  mother  and  the 
name  of  a  hero." 

She  spoke  these  words  in  grave,  sweet  accents,  which 
seemed  more  melodious  to  Prince  Andras  than  all  the 
music  of  Baroness  Dinati's  concert.  He  divined  that 
Marsa  Laszlo  found  as  much  pleasure  in  speaking  to 
him  as  he  felt  in  listening.  As  he  gazed  at  her,  a  deli- 
cate flush  spread  over  Marsa' s  pale,  rather  melancholy 
face,  tingeing  even  her  little,  shell-like  ears,  and  making 
her  cheeks  glow  with  the  soft,  warm  color  of  a  peach. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  little  Baroness  came  hastily 
up  to  them,  and,  with  an  assumed  air  of  severity,  began 
to  reproach  Marsa  for  neglecting  the  unfortunate  musi- 
cians, suddenly  breaking  off  to  exclaim : 

"Really,  you  are  a  hundred  times  prettier  than  ever 
this  evening,  my  dear  Marsa.  What  have  you  been  do- 
ing to  yourself?" 

[5'] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"Oh!  it  is  because  I  am  very  happy,  I  suppose,'* 
replied  Marsa. 

"Ah!  my  dear  Prince,"  and  the  Baroness  broke  into 
a  merry  peal  of  laughter,  "it  is  you,  O  ever-conquering 
hero,  who  have  worked  this  miracle." 

But,  as  if  she  had  been  too  hasty  in  proclaiming 
aloud  her  happiness,  the  Tzigana  suddenly  frowned,  a 
harsh,  troubled  look  crept  into  her  dark  eyes,  and  her 
cheeks  became  pale  as  marble,  while  her  gaze  was  fixed 
upon  a  tall  young  man  who  was  crossing  the  salon  and 
coming  toward  her. 

Instinctively  Andras  Zilah  followed  her  look.  Mi- 
chel Menko  was  advancing  to  salute  Marsa  Laszlo,  and 
take  with  affectionate  respect  the  hand  which  Andras 
extended  to  him. 

Marsa  coldly  returned  the  low  bow  of  the  young 
man,  and  took  no  part  in  the  conversation  which  fol- 
lowed. Menko  remained  but  a  few  moments,  evidently 
embarrassed  at  his  reception;  and  after  his  departure, 
Zilah,  who  had  noticed  the  Tzigana' s  coldness,  asked 
her  if  she  knew  his  friend. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  in  a  peculiar  tone. 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  so  from  the  way  in 
which  you  received  him,"  said  Andras,  laughing. 
"Poor  Michel!  Have  you  any  reason  to  be  angry  with 
him?" 

"None." 

"I  like  him  very  much.  He  is  a  charming  boy,  and 
his  father  was  one  of  my  companions  in  arms.  I  have 
been  almost  a  guardian  to  his  son.  We  are  kinsmen, 
and  when  the  young  count  entered  diplomacy  he  asked 

[53] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

my  advice,  as  he  hesitated  to  serve  Austria.  I  told  him 
that,  after  having  fought  Austria  with  the  sword,  it  was 
our  duty  to  absorb  it  by  our  talents  and  devotion.  Was 
I  not  right  ?  Austria  is  to-day  subservient  to  Hungary, 
and,  when  Vienna  acts,  Vienna  glances  toward  Pesth  to 
see  if  the  Magyars  are  satisfied.  Michel  Menko  has 
therefore  served  his  country  well;  and  I  don't  under- 
stand why  he  gave  up  diplomacy.  He  makes  me  un- 
easy: he  seems  to  me,  like  all  young  men  of  his  gener- 
ation, a  little  too  undecided  what  object  to  pursue,  what 
duty  to  fulfil.  He  is  nervous,  irresolute.  We  were 
more  unfortunate  but  more  determined;  we  marched 
straight  on  without  that  burden  of  pessimism  with 
which  our  successors  are  loaded  down.  I  am  sorry  that 
Michel  has  resigned  his  position:  he  had  a  fine  future 
before  him,  and  he  would  have  made  a  good -diplo- 
matist." 

"Too  good,  perhaps,"  interrupted  Marsa,  dryly. 

"Ah,  decidedly,"  retorted  the  Prince,  with  a  smile, 
"you  don't  like  my  poor  Menko." 

"He  is  indifferent  to  me;"  and  the  way  in  which  she 
pronounced  the  words  was  a  terrible  condemnation  of 
Michel  Menko.  "But,"  added  the  Tzigana,  "he  him- 
self has  told  me  all  that  you  have  said  of  him.  He,  on 
his  side,  has  a  great  affection  and  a  deep  veneration  for 
you;  and  it  is  not  astonishing  that  it  should  be  so,  for 
men  like  you  are  examples  for  men  like  him,  and " 

She  paused  abruptly,  as  if  unwilling  to  say  more. 

"And  what?"  asked  the  Prince. 

"Nothing.  'Examples'  is  enough;  I  don't  know 
what  I  was  going  to  say." 

[54] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

She  made  a  little  gesture  with  her  pretty  hand  as  if 
to  dismiss  the  subject;  and,  after  wondering  a  moment 
at  the  girl's  singular  reticence  after  her  previous  frank- 
ness, Andras  thought  only  of  enjoying  her  grace  and 
charm,  until  the  Tzigana  gave  him  her  hand  and  bade 
him  good-night,  begging  him  to  remember  that  she 
would  be  very  happy  and  proud  to  receive  him  in  her 
own  house. 

"But,  indeed,"  she  added,  with  a  laugh  which  dis- 
played two  rows  of  pearly  teeth,  "it  is  not  for  me  to 
invite  you.  That  is  a  terrible  breach  of  the  proprieties. 
General!" 

At  her  call,  from  a  group  near  by,  advanced  old 
General  Vogotzine,  whom  Zilah  had  not  noticed  since 
the  beginning  of  the  evening.  Marsa  laid  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  and  said,  distinctly,  Vogotzine  being  a  little 
deaf: 

"Prince  Andras  Zilah,  uncle,  will  do  us  the  honor  of 
coming  to  see  us  at  Maisons-Lafitte." 

"Ah!  Ah!  Very  happy!  Delighted!  Very  flatter- 
ing of  you,  Prince,"  stammered  the  General,  pulling  his 
white  moustache,  and  blinking  his  little  round  eyes. 
"Andras  Zilah!  Ah!  1848!  Hard  days,  those!  All 
over  now,  though!  All  over  now!  Ah!  Ah!  We  no 
longer  cut  one  another's  throats!  No!  No!  No 
longer  cut  one  another's  throats!" 

He  held  out  to  Andras  his  big,  fat  hand,  and  re- 
peated, as  he  shook  that  of  the  Prince: 

"Delighted!  Enchanted!  Prince  Zilah!  Yes! 
Yes!" 

In  another  moment  they  were  gone,  and  the  evening 

[55] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

seemed  to  Andras  like  a  vision,  a  beautiful,  feverish 
dream. 

He  sent  away  his  coupe",  and  returned  home  on  foot, 
feeling  the  need  of  the  night  air;  and,  as  he  walked  up 
the  Champs-Ely  sees  beneath  the  starry  sky,  he  was  sur- 
prised to  find  a  new,  youthful  feeling  at  his  heart,  stir- 
ring his  pulses  like  the  first,  soft  touch  of  spring. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"HAVE  i  NO  RIGHT  TO  BE  HAPPY?" 

'HERE  was  a  certain  womanly  coquetry, 
mingled  with  a  profound  love  of  the 
soil  where  her  martyred  mother  re- 
posed, in  the  desire  which  Marsa 
Laszlo  had  to  be  called  the  Tzigana, 
instead  of  by  her  own  name.  The 
Tzigana!  This  name,  as  clear  cut,  re- 
sonant and  expressive  as  the  czimba- 
loms  of  the  Hungarian  musicians,  lent  her  an  additional, 
original  charm.  She  was  always  spoken  of  thus,  when 
she  was  perceived  riding  her  pure-blooded  black  mare, 
or  driving,  attached  to  a  victoria,  a  pair  of  bay  horses 
of  the  Kisber  breed.  Before  the  horses  ran  two  superb 
Danish  hounds,  of  a  lustrous  dark  gray,  with  white 
feet,  eyes  of  a  peculiar  blue,  rimmed  with  yellow,  and 
sensitive,  pointed  ears — Duna  and  Bundas,  the  Hun- 
garian names  for  the  Danube  and  the  Velu. 

These  hounds,  and  an  enormous  dog  of  the  Hima- 
layas, with  a  thick,  yellow  coat  and  long,  sharp  teeth, 
a  half -savage  beast,  bearing  the  name  of  Ortog  (Satan), 
were  Marsa's  companions  in  her  walks;  and  their  sub- 
mission to  their  young  mistress,  whom  they  could  have 
knocked  down  with  one  pat  of  their  paws,  gave  the 
Tziganaa  reputation  for  eccentricity,  which,  however, 


JULES  CLARETIE 

neither  pleased  nor  displeased  her,  as  she  was  perfectly 
indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  the  public  at  large. 

She  continued  to  inhabit,  near  the  forest  of  Saint- 
Germain,  beyond  the  fashionable  avenues,  the  villa, 
ornamented  with  the  holy  Muscovite  icon,  which 
Prince  Tchereteff  had  purchased ;  and  she  persisted  in 
remaining  there  alone  with  old  Vogotzine,  who  re- 
garded her  respectfully  with  his  round  eyes,  always 
moist  with  kwass  or  brandy. 

Flying  the  crowded  city,  eager  for  space  and  air,  a 
true  daughter  of  Hungary,  Marsa  loved  to  ride  through 
the  beautiful,  silent  park,  down  the  long,  almost  de- 
serted avenues,  toward  the  bit  of  pale  blue  horizon  dis- 
cernible in  the  distance  at  the  end  of  the  sombre  arch 
formed  by  the  trees.  Birds,  startled  by  the  horses' 
hoofs,  rose  here  and  there  out  of  the  bushes,  pouring 
forth  their  caroling  to  the  clear  ether;  and  Marsa,  spur- 
ring her  thoroughbred,  would  dash  in  a  mad  gallop 
toward  a  little,  almost  unknown  grove  of  oaks,  with 
thickets  full  of  golden  furze  and  pink  heather,  where 
woodcutters  worked,  half  buried  in  the  long  grass  pep- 
pered with  blue  cornflowers  and  scarlet  poppies. 

Or,  at  other  times,  with  Duna  and  Bundas  bounding 
before  her,  disappearing,  returning,  disappearing  again 
with  yelps  of  joy,  it  was  Marsa's  delight  to  wander 
alone  under  the  great  limes  of  the  Albine  avenue — 
shade  over  her  head,  silence  about  her — and  then  slowly, 
by  way  of  a  little  alley  bordered  with  lofty  poplars 
trembling  at  every  breath  of  wind,  to  reach  the  borders 
of  the  forest.  In  ten  steps  she  would  suddenly  find  her- 
self plunged  in  solitude  as  in  a  bath  of  verdure,  shade 

[58] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

and  oblivion.  The  sweet  silence  surrounding  her 
calmed  her,  and  she  would  walk  on  and  on  through  the 
thick  grass  under  the  great  trees.  The  trunks  of  the 
giant  oaks  were  clothed  in  robes  of  emerald  moss,  and 
wild  flowers  of  all  descriptions  raised  their  heads  amid 
the  grass.  There  was  no  footstep,  no  sound;  a  bee 
lazily  humming,  a  brilliant  butterfly  darting  across  the 
path,  something  quick  and  red  flashing  up  a  tree — a 
squirrel  frightened  by  the  Danish  hounds;  that  was  all. 
And  Marsa  was  happy  with  the  languorous  happiness 
which  nature  gives,  her  forehead  cooled  by  the  fresh 
breeze,  her  eyes  rested  by  the  deep  green  which  hid  the 
skies,  her  whole  being  refreshed  by  the  atmosphere  of 
peace  which  fell  from  the  trees. 

Then,  calling  her  dogs,  she  would  proceed  to  a  little 
farmhouse,  and,  sitting  down  under  the  mulberry- 
trees,  wait  until  the  farmer's  wife  brought  her  some 
newly  baked  bread  and  a  cup  of  milk,  warm  from  the 
cows.  Then  she  would  remain  idly  there,  surrounded 
by  chickens,  ducks,  and  great,  greedy  geese,  which  she 
fed,  breaking  the  bread  between  her  white  fingers, 
while  Duna  and  Bundas  crouched  at  her  feet,  pricking 
up  their  ears,  and  watching  these  winged  denizens  of 
the  farmyard,  which  Marsa  forbade  them  to  touch. 
Finally  the  Tzigana  would  slowly  wend  her  way  home, 
enter  the  villa,  sit  down  before  the  piano,  and  play,  with 
ineffable  sweetness,  like  souvenirs  of  another  life,  the 
free  and  wandering  life  of  her  mother,  the  Hungarian 
airs  of  Janos  Nemeth,  the  sad  "Song  of  Plevna,"  the 
sparkling  air  of  "The  Little  Brown  Maid  of  Buda- 
pest," and  that  bitter,  melancholy  romance,  "The 

[59] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

World  holds  but  One  Fair  Maiden,"  a  mournful  and 
despairing  melody,  which  she  preferred  to  all  others, 
because  it  responded,  with  its  tearful  accents,  to  a  par- 
ticular state  of  her  own  heart. 

The  girl  was  evidently  concealing  some  secret  suffer- 
ing. The  bitter  memory  of  her  early  years  ?  Perhaps. 
Physical  pain  ?  Possibly.  She  had  been  ill  some  years 
before,  and  had  been  obliged  to  pass  a  winter  at  Pau. 
But  it  seemed  rather  some  mental  anxiety  or  torture 
which  impelled  the  Tzigana  to  seek  solitude  and  silence 
in  her  voluntary  retreat. 

The  days  passed  thus  in  that  villa  of  Maisons-Lafitte, 
where  Tisza  died.  Very  often,  in  the  evening,  Marsa 
would  shut  herself  up  in  the  solitude  of  that  death- 
chamber,  which  remained  just  as  her  mother  had  left 
it.  Below,  General  Vogotzine  smoked  his  pipe,  with  a 
bottle  of  brandy  for  company:  above,  Marsa  prayed. 

One  night  she  went  out,  and  through  the  sombre 
alleys,  in  the  tender  light  of  the  moon,  made  her  way  to 
the  little  convent  in  the  Avenue  Egle,  where  the  blue 
sisters  were  established;  those  sisters  whom  she  often 
met  in  the  park,  with  their  full  robes  of  blue  cloth,  their 
white  veils,  a  silver  medallion  and  crucifix  upon  their 
breasts,  and  a  rosary  of  wooden  beads  suspended  at 
their  girdles.  The  little  house  of  the  community  was 
shut,  the  grating  closed.  The  only  sign  of  life  was  in 
the  lighted  windows  of  the  chapel. 

Marsa  paused  there,  leaning  her  heated  brow  against 
the  cold  bars  of  iron,  with  a  longing  for  death,  and  a 
terrible  temptation  to  end  all  by  suicide. 

"Who  knows?"  she  murmured.  "Perhaps  forget- 

[60] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

fulness,  deep,  profound  forgetfulness,  lies  within  these 
walls."  Forgetfulness!  Marsa,  then,  wished  to  for- 
get? What  secret  torture  gave  to  her  beautiful  face 
that  expression  so  bitter,  so  terrible  in  its  agony  ? 

She  stood  leaning  there,  gazing  at  the  windows  of  the 
chapel.  Broken  words  of  prayers,  of  muttered  verses 
and  responses,  reached  her  like  the  tinkling  of  far-off 
chimes,  like  the  rustling  of  invisible  wings.  The  blue 
sisters,  behind  those  walls,  were  celebrating  their  ves- 
per service. 

Does  prayer  drive  away  anguish  and  heartrending 
memories  ? 

Marsa  was  a  Catholic,  her  mother  having  belonged 
to  the  minority  of  Tzigani  professing  the  faith  of  Rome ; 
and  Tisza's  daughter  could,  therefore,  bury  her  youth 
and  beauty  in  the  convent  of  the  blue  sisters. 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  verses  and  prayers,  which 
paused,  began  again,  and  then  died  away  in  the  night 
like  sighs,  attracted  her,  and,  like  the  trees  of  the  forest, 
gave  her  an  impression  of  that  peace,  that  deep  repose, 
which  was  the  longed-for  dream  of  her  soul. 

But,  suddenly,  the  Tzigana  started,  removed  her 
gaze  from  the  light  streaming  through  the  blue  and  crim- 
son glass,  and  hurried  away,  crying  aloud  in  the  dark- 
ness: 

"No:  repose  is  not  there.  And,  after  all,  where  is 
repose  ?  Only  in  ourselves !  It  can  be  found  nowhere, 
if  it  is  not  in  the  heart!" 

Then,  after  these  hours  of  solitude,  this  longing  for 
the  cloister,  this  thirsting  for  annihilation  and  oblivion, 
Marsa  would  experience  a  desire  for  the  dashing,  false, 

[61] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

and  frivolous  life  of  Paris.  She  would  quit  Maisons, 
taking  with  her  a  maid,  or  sometimes  old  Vogotzine,  go 
to  some  immense  hotel,  like  the  Continental  or  the 
Grand,  dine  at  the  table  d'hote,  or  in  the  restaurant, 
seeking  everywhere  bustle  and  noise,  the  antithesis  of  the 
life  of  shade  and  silence  which  she  led  amid  the  leafy 
trees  of  her  park.  She  would  show  herself  everywhere, 
at  races,  theatres,  parties — as  when  she  accepted  the 
Baroness  Dinati's  invitation;  and,  when  she  became 
nauseated  with  all  the  artificiality  of  worldly  life,  she 
would  return  eagerly  to  her  woods,  her  dogs  and  her 
solitude,  and,  if  it  were  winter,  would  shut  herself  up 
for  long  months  in  her  lonely,  snow-girt  house. 

And  was  not  this  existence  sweet  and  pleasant,  com- 
pared with  the  life  led  by  Tisza  in  the  castle  of  the  sub- 
urbs of  Moscow  ? 

In  this  solitude,  in  the  villa  of  Maisons-Lafitte,  An- 
dras  Zilah  was  again  to  see  Marsa  Laszlo.  He  came  not 
once,  but  again  and  again.  He  was,  perhaps,  since  the 
death  of  Prince  Tchereteff,  the  only  man  General  Vo- 
gotzine had  seen  in  his  niece's  house,  and  Marsa  was 
always  strangely  happy  when  Andras  came  to  see  her. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  very  particular  when  Prince  Zilah 
is  coming  to  Maisons,"  said  her  maid  to  her. 

"Because  Prince  Zilah  is  not  a  man  like  other  men. 
He  is  a  hero.  In  my  mother's  country  there  is  no 
name  more  popular  than  his." 

"So  I  have  heard  Count  Menko  say  to  Mademoi- 
selle." 

.If  it  were  the  maid's  wish  to  remove  all  happiness  from 
her  mistress's  face,  she  had  met  with  complete  success. 

[62] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

At  the  name  of  Menko,  Marsa's  expression  became 
dark  and  threatening.  Prince  Andras  had  noticed  this 
same  change  in  the  Tzigana's  face,  when  he  was  speak- 
ing to  her  at  Baroness  Dinati's. 

The  Prince  had  forgotten  no  detail  of  that  first  fascin- 
ating interview,  at  which  his  love  for  the  Tzigana  was 
born.  This  man,  who  had  hardly  any  other  desire 
than  to  end  in  peace  a  life  long  saddened  by  defeat  and 
exile,  suddenly  awoke  to  a  happy  hope  of  a  home  and 
family  joys.  He  was  rich,  alone  in  the  world,  and  in- 
dependent; and  he  was,  therefore,  free  to  choose  the 
woman  to  be  made  his  princess.  No  caste  prejudice 
prevented  him  from  giving  his  title  to  the  daughter  of 
Tisza.  The  Zilahs,  in  trying  to  free  their  country,  had 
freed  themselves  from  all  littleness;  and  proud,  but  not 
vain,  they  bore  but  slight  resemblance  to  those  Magyars 
of  whom  Szechenyi,  the  great  count,  who  died  of  de- 
spair in  1849,  ^d:  "The  overweening  haughtiness  of 
my  people  will  be  their  ruin." 

The  last  of  the  Zilahs  did  not  consider  his  pride  hu- 
miliated by  loving  and  wedding  a  Tzigana.  Frankly, 
in  accents  of  the  deepest  love  and  the  most  sincere  de- 
votion, Andras  asked  Marsa  Laszlo  if  she  would  con- 
sent to  become  his  wife.  But  he  was  terrified  at  the 
expression  of  anguish  which  passed  over  the  pale  face 
of  the  young  girl. 

Marsa,  Princess  Zilah!  Like  her  mother,  she  would 
have  refused  from  a  Tchereteff  this  title  of  princess 
which  Andras  offered  her,  nay,  laid  at  her  feet  with 
passionate  tenderness.  But — Princess  Zilah ! 

She  regarded  with  wild  eyes  the  Prince,  who  stood 


JULES  CLARETIE 

before  her,  timid  and  with  trembling  lips,  awaiting  her 
reply.  But,  as  she  did  not  answer,  he  stooped  over  and 
took  her  hands  in  his. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried;  for  Marsa's  fingers  were  icy. 

It  cost  the  young  girl  a  terrible  effort  to  prevent  her- 
self from  losing  consciousness. 

"But  speak  to  me,  Marsa,"  exclaimed  Andras,  "do 
not  keep  me  in  suspense." 

He  had  loved  her  now  for  six  months,  and  an  iron 
hand  seemed  to  clutch  the  heart  of  this  man,  who  had 
never  known  what  it  was  to  fear,  at  the  thought  that 
perhaps  Marsa  did  not  return  his  love. 

He  had,  doubtless,  believed  that  he  had  perceived  in 
her  a  tender  feeling  toward  himself  which  had  embold- 
ened him  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife.  But  had  be  been 
deceived?  Was  it  only  the  soldier  in  him  that  had 
pleased  Marsa  ?  Was  he  about  to  suffer  a  terrible  dis- 
appointment? Ah,  what  folly  to  love,  and  to  love  at 
forty  years,  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  like  Marsa ! 

Still,  she  made  him  no  answer,  but  sat  there  before 
him  like  a  statue,  pale  to  the  lips,  her  dark  eyes  fixed 
on  him  in  a  wild,  horrified  stare. 

Then,  as  he  pressed  her,  with  tears  in  his  voice,  to 
speak,  she  forced  her  almost  paralyzed  tongue  to  utter 
a  response  which  fell,  cruel  as  a  death-sentence,  upon 
the  heart  of  the  hero : 

"Never!" 

Andras  stood  motionless  before  her  in  such  terrible 
stillness  that  she  longed  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet  and 
cry  out:  "I  love  you!  I  love  you!  But  your  wife— 
no,  never!" 

[64] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

She  loved  him  ?  Yes,  madly — better  than  that,  with 
a  deep,  eternal  passion,  a  passion  solidly  anchored  in 
admiration,  respect  and  esteem;  with  an  unconquer- 
able attraction  toward  what  represented,  to  her  harassed 
soul,  honor  without  a  blemish,  perfect  goodness  in  per- 
fect courage,  the  immolation  of  a  life  to  duty,  all  incar- 
nate in  one  man,  radiant  in  one  illustrious  name — Zilah. 

And  Andras  himself  divined  something  of  this  feel- 
ing; he  felt  that  Marsa,  despite  her  enigmatical  refusal, 
cared  for  him  in  a  way  that  was  something  more  than 
friendship;  he  was  certain  of  it.  Then,  why  did  she 
command  him  thus  with  a  single  word  to  despair? 
"Never!"  She  was  not  free,  then?  And  a  question 
for  which  he  immediately  asked  her  pardon  by  a  ges- 
ture, escaped,  like  the  appeal  of  a  drowning  man,  from 
his  lips: 

"Do  you  love  some  one  else,  Marsa?" 

She  uttered  a  cry. 

"  No !    I  swear  to  you — no ! " 

He  urged  her,  then,  to  explain  what  was  the  meaning 
of  her  refusal,  of  the  fright  she  had  just  shown;  and,  in 
a  sort  of  nervous  hysteria  which  she  forced  herself  to 
control,  in  the  midst  of  stifled  sobs,  she  told  him  that 
if  she  could  ever  consent  to  unite  herself  to  anyone,  it 
would  be  to  him,  to  him  alone,  to  the  hero  of  her  coun- 
try, to  him  whose  chivalrous  devotion  she  had  admired 
long  before  she  knew  him,  and  that  now —  And  here 
she  stopped  short,  just  on  the  brink  of  an  avowal. 

"Well,  now?    Now?"  demanded  Andras,  awaiting 
the  word  which,  in  her  overstrung  condition,  Marsa 
had  almost  spoken.    "  Now  ? ' ' 
5  [65] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

But  she  did  not  speak  these  words  which  Zilah  begged 
for  with  ne\vly  awakened  hope.  She  longed  to  end  this 
interview  which  was  killing  her,  and  in  broken  accents 
asked  him  to  excuse  her,  to  forgive  her — but  she  was 
really  ill. 

"But  if  you  are  suffering,  I  can  not,  I  will  not  leave 
you." 

"I  implore  you.    I  need  to  be  alone." 

"At  least  you  will  permit  me  to  come  to-morrow, 
Marsa,  and  ask  for  your  answer?" 

"My  answer?    I  have  given  it  to  you." 

"No!  No!  I  do  not  accept  that  refusal.  No:  you 
did  not  know  wrhat  you  were  saying.  I  swear  to  you, 
Marsa,  that  without  you  life  is  impossible  to  me;  all 
my  existence  is  bound  up  in  yours.  You  will  reflect: 
there  was  an  accent  in  your  voice  which  bade  me  hope. 
I  will  come  again  to-morrow.  To-morrow,  Marsa. 
What  you  have  said  to-day  does  not  count.  To-mor- 
row, to-morrow;  and  remember  that  I  adore  you." 

And  she,  shuddering  at  the  tones  of  his  voice,  not 
daring  to  say  no,  and  to  bid  him  an  eternal  farewell,  let 
him  depart,  confident,  hopeful,  despite  the  silence  to 
which  she  obstinately,  desperately  clung.  Then,  when 
Andras  was  gone,  at  the  end  of  her  strength,  she  threw 
herself,  like  a  mad  woman,  down  upon  the  divan. 
Once  alone,  she  gave  way  utterly,  sobbing  passionately, 
and  then,  suddenly  ceasing,  with  wild  eyes  fixed  upon 
vacancy,  to  mutter  with  dry,  feverish  lips: 

"Yet — it  is  life  he  brings  to  me — happiness  he  offers 
me.  Have  I  no  right  to  be  happy — I  ?  My  God !  To 
be  the  wife  of  such  a  man!  To  love  him — to  devote 

[66] 


"Now!    Now!*      demanded  Andms. 

[Fror    an  Or;j>     -it  Drawing  by  Herman  Rt-untree,  \ 


tagged 

awak<  this 

Inch  wa'~ 
io  excus< 

are  su£h  !eave 

\t  least  you  iu  to  come  to-morrow, 

-sa,  and  ask 

HI." 

that  ret  -ou 

hat  you  were  saying.    I  swear  to  you, 

-Mlth«jy^'  -viosvjjto/t*me;   a11 

ray  •  reflect: 

ope. 
rsa. 

ount.    To-mor- 
row, re  you." 

;   his  voice,  not 

y  no,  as  rnal  farewell,  let 

depart,  cor  spite  th  c  to 

whigh  she  c  lung.  hen 

Andras  was  gor  -rcw 

a  mad  woman,  dmv  .-an. 

v,  sobbing  pasjaonately, 

sing,  with  wild  vd  upon 

\ith  dn%  feveris 

lie  brings  to  me — happiws  ?  he  offers 

•o  be  happy  ,od!    To 

To  1<  devote 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

myself  to  him — to  make  his  existence  one  succession  of 
happy  days!  To  be  his  slave,  his  thing!  Shall  I  marry 
him?  Or— shall  I  kill  myself?  Kill  myself!"  with  a 
horrible,  agonizing  laugh.  "Yes,  that  is  the  only  thing 
for  me  to  do.  But — but — I  am  a  coward,  now  that  I 
love  him — a  coward!  a  coward!  a  miserable  wretch!" 
And  she  fell  headlong  forward,  crouching  upon  the 
floor  in  a  fierce  despair,  as  if  either  life  or  reason  was 
about  to  escape  from  her  forever. 


[67] 


CHAPTER  IX 

"o  LIBERTY!  o  LOVE!  THESE  TWO  i  NEED!" 

;HEN  Zilah  came  the  next  day  he  found 
Marsa  perfectly  calm.  At  first  he  only 
questioned  her  anxiously  as  to  her 
health. 

"Oh!  I  am  well,"  she  replied,  smil- 
ing a  little  sadly;   and,  turning  to  the 
piano  at  which  she  was  seated,  she 
began  to  play  the  exquisitely  sad  ro- 
mance which  was  her  favorite  air. 

1 '  That  is  by  Janos  Nemeth,  is  it  not  ? ' '  asked  the  Prince. 
"Yes,  by  Janos  Nemeth.    I  am  very  fond  of  his  mu- 
sic; it  is  so  truly  Hungarian  in  its  spirit." 

The  music  fell  upon  the  air  like  sighs — like  the  dis- 
tant tones  of  a  bell  tolling  a  requiem — a  lament,  poetic, 
mournful,  despairing,  yet  ineffably  sweet  and  tender, 
ending  in  one  deep,  sustained  note  like  the  last  clod  of 
earth  falling  upon  a  new-made  grave. 

"What  is  that  called,  Marsa?"  said  Andras. 
She  made  no  reply. 

Rising,  he  looked  at  the  title,  printed  in  Hungarian; 
then,  leaning  over  the  Tzigana  till  his  breath  fanned  her 
cheek,  he  murmured: 

"  Janos  Nemeth  was  right.  The  world  holds  but  one 
fair  maiden." 

[68] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

She  turned  very  pale,  rose  from  the  piano,  and  giving 
him  her  hand,  said: 

"It  is  almost  a  madrigal,  my  dear  Prince,  is  it  not? 
I  am  going  to  be  frank  with  you.  You  love  me,  I  know; 
and  I  also  love  you.  Will  you  give  me  a  month  to  re- 
flect ?  A  whole  month  ?  " 

"My  entire  life  belongs  to  you  now,"  said  the  Prince. 
"Do  with  it  what  you  will." 

"Well!  Then  in  a  month  I  will  give  you  your 
answer,"  she  said  firmly. 

"But,"  said  Andras,  smiling  beneath  his  blond 
moustache,  "remember  that  I  once  took  for  my  motto 
the  verses  of  Petcefi.  You  know  well  those  beautiful 
verses  of  our  country: 

O  Liberty!    O  Love! 

These  two  I  need. 

My  chosen  meed, 
To  give  my  love  for  Liberty, 

My  life  for  Love. 

"Well,"  he  added,  "do  you  know,  at  this  moment 
the  Andras  Zilah  of  'forty-eight  would  almost  give 
liberty,  that  passion  of  his  whole  life,  for  your  love, 
Marsa,  my  own  Marsa,  who  are  to  me  the  living  in- 
carnation of  my  country." 

Marsa  was  moved  to  the  depths  of  her  heart  at  hear- 
ing this  man  speak  such  words  to  her.  The  ideal  of  the 
Tzigana,  as  it  is  of  most  women,  was  loyalty  united 
with  strength.  Had  she  ever,  in  her  wildest  flights  of 
fancy,  dreamed  that  she  should  hear  one  of  the  heroes 

[69] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

of  the  war  of  independence,  a  Zilah  Andras,  supplicate 
her  to  bear  his  name? 


Marsa  knew  Yanski  Varhely.  The  Prince  had 
brought  him  to  see  her  at  Maisons-Lafitte.  She  was 
aware  that  Count  Varhely  knew  the  Prince's  most  se- 
cret thoughts,  and  she  was  certain  that  Andras  had  con- 
fided all  his  hopes  and  his  fears  to  his  old  friend. 

"What  do  you  think  would  become  of  the  Prince  if  I 
should  not  marry  him  ?"  she  asked  him  one  day  without 
warning. 

"That  is  a  pointblank  question  which  I  hardly  ex- 
pected," said  Yanski,  gazing  at  her  in  astonishment. 
"Don't  you  wish  to  become  a  Zilah?" 

Any  hesitation  even  seemed  to  him  insulting,  almost 
sacrilegious. 

"I  don't  say  that,"  replied  the  Tzigana,  "but  I  ask 
you  what  would  become  of  the  Prince  if,  for  one  reason 
or  another— 

"I  can  very  easily  inform  you,"  interrupted  Varhely. 
"The  Prince,  as  you  must  be  aware,  is  one  of  those  men 
who  love  but  once  during  their  lives.  Upon  my  word  of 
honor,  I  believe  that,  if  you  should  refuse  him,  he  would 
commit  some  folly,  some  madness,  something — fatal. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"  Ah ! "  ejaculated  Marsa,  with  an  icy  chill  in  her  veins. 

"That  is  my  opinion,"  continued  Yanski,  harshly. 
"He  is  wounded.  It  remains  with  you  to  decide 
whether  the  bullet  be  mortal  or  not." 

Varhely's  response  must  have  had  great  weight  in 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

Marsa  Laszlo's  reflections,  full  of  anguish,  fever,  revolt 
and  despair  as  they  were,  during  the  few  weeks  preced- 
ing the  day  upon  which  she  had  promised  to  tell  Prince 
Andras  if  she  would  consent  to  become  his  wife  or  not. 
It  was  a  yes,  almost  as  curt  as  another  refusal,  which 
fell  at  last  from  the  lips  of  the  Tzigana.  But  the  Prince 
was  not  cool  enough  to  analyze  an  intonation. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  have  suffered  so  much  dur- 
ing these  weeks  of  doubt;  but  this  happiness  makes 
amends  for  all." 

"Do  you  know  what  Varhely  said  to  me?"  asked 
Marsa. 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"Well,  since  the  Zilahs  treat  their  love-affairs  as 
they  do  their  duels,  and  risk  their  whole  existence,  so  be 
it!  I  accept.  Your  existence  for  mine!  Gift  for  gift!  I 
do  not  wish  you  to  die!" 

He  did  not  try  to  understand  her;  but  he  took  her 
burning  hands  between  his  own,  and  covered  them 
with  kisses.  And  she,  with  trembling  lip,  regarded, 
through  her  long  eyelashes,  the  brave  man  who  now 
bent  before  her,  saying:  "  I  love  you." 

Then,  in  that  moment  of  infinite  happiness,  on  the 
threshold  of  the  new  life  which  opened  before  her,  she 
forgot  all  to  think  only  of  the  reality,  of  the  hero  whose 
wife  she  was  to  be.  His  wife !  So,  as  in  a  dream,  with- 
out thinking,  without  resisting,  abandoning  herself  to 
the  current  which  bore  her  along,  not  trying  to  take 
account  of  time  or  of  the  future,  loving,  and  beloved, 
living  in  a  sort  of  charmed  somnambulism,  the  Tzigana 
watched  the  preparations  for  her  marriage. 


JULES  CLARETIE 

The  Prince,  with  the  impatience  of  a  youth  of  twenty, 
had  urged  an  early  day  for  their  union.  He  announced 
his  engagement  to  the  society,  at  once  Parisian  and  for- 
eign, of  which  he  formed  a  part ;  and  this  marriage  of 
the  Magyar  with  the  Tzigana  was  an  event  in  aristo- 
cratic circles.  There  was  an  aroma  of  chivalrous  ro- 
mance about  this  action  of  Prince  Andras,  who  was 
rich  enough  and  independent  enough  to  have  married, 
if  he  had  wished,  a  shepherdess,  like  the  kings  of  fairy 
tales. 

"Isn't  it  perfectly  charming?'*  exclaimed  the  little 
Baroness  Dinati,  enthusiastically.  "Jacquemin,  my 
dear  friend,  I  will  give  you  all  the  details  of  their  first 
meeting.  You  can  make  a  delicious  article  out  of  it, 
delicious!" 

The  little  Baroness  was  almost  as  delighted  as  the 
Prince.  Ah!  what  a  man  that  Zilah  was!  He  would 
give,  as  a  wedding-gift  to  the  Tzigana,  the  most  beau- 
tiful diamonds  in  the  world,  those  famous  Zilah  dia- 
monds, which  Prince  Joseph  had  once  placed  disdain- 
fully upon  his  hussar's  uniform  when  he  charged  the 
Prussian  cuirassiers  of  Ziethen,  sure  of  escaping  the 
sabre  cuts,  and  not  losing  a  single  one  of  the  stones 
during  the  combat.  It  was  said  that  Marsa,  until  she 
was  his  wife,  would  not  accept  any  jewels  from  the 
Prince.  The  opals  in  the  silver  agraffe  were  all  she 
wanted. 

"You  know  them,  don't  you,  Jacquemin?  The  fa- 
mous opals  of  the  Tzigana?  Put  that  all  in,  every 
word  of  it." 

"Yes,  it  is  chic  enough,"  answered  the  reporter.    "It 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

is  very  romantic,  a  little  too  much  so;  my  readers  will 
never  believe  it.  Never  mind,  though,  I  will  write  it  all 
up  in  my  best  manner." 

The  fete  on  board  the  steamer,  given  by  the  Prince  in 
honor  of  his  betrothal,  had  been  as  much  talked  of  as 
a  sensational  first  night  at  the  Francais,  and  it  added 
decidedly  to  the  romantic  prestige  of  Andras  Zilah. 
There  was  not  a  marriageable  young  girl  who  was  not 
a  little  in  love  with  him,  and  their  mothers  envied  the 
luck  of  the  Tzigana. 

"It  is  astonishing  how  jealous  the  mammas  are," 
said  the  Baroness,  gayly.  "They  will  make  me  pay 
dearly  for  having  been  the  matchmaker;  but  I  am 
proud  of  it,  very  proud.  Zilah  has  good  taste,  that  is 
all.  And,  as  for  him,  I  should  have  been  in  love  with 
him  myself,  if  I  had  not  had  my  guests  to  attend  to. 
Ah,  society  is  as  absorbing  as  a  husband!" 

Upon  the  boat,  Paul  Jacquemin  did  not  leave  the 
side  of  the  matchmaker.  He  followed  her  everywhere, 
He  had  still  to  obtain  a  description  of  the  bride's  toi- 
lettes, the  genealogy  of  General  Vogotzine,  a  sketch  of 
the  bridegroom's  best  friend,  Varhely,  and  a  thousand 
other  details. 

"Where  will  the  wedding  take  place?"  he  asked  the 
Baroness. 

"At  Maisons-Lafitte.  Oh!  everything  is  perfect,  my 
dear  Jacquemin,  perfect!  An  idyl!  All  the  arrange- 
ments  are  exquisite,  exquisite!  I  only  wish  that  you 
had  charge  of  the  supper." 

Jacquemin,  general  overseer  of  the  Baroness's  par- 
ties in  t}ie  Rue  Murillo,  did  not  confess  himself  inferior 

[73] 


JULES  CLARET1E 

to  any  one  as  an  epicure.  He  would  taste  the  wines, 
with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur,  holding  his  glass  up  to  the 
light,  while  the  liquor  caressed  his  palate,  and  shutting 
his  eyes  as  if  more  thoroughly  to  decide  upon  its  merits. 

"Pomard!"  would  slowly  fall  from  his  lips,  or  "Ac- 
ceptable Musigny!"  "This  Chambertin  is  really  very 
fair!"  "The  Chateau  Yquem  is  not  half  bad!"  etc., 
etc.  And  the  next  morning  would  appear  in  the  re- 
ports, which  he  wrote  himself  under  various  pseudo- 
nyms: "Our  compliments  to  our  friend  Jacquemin,  if 
he  had  anything  to  do  with  the  selection  of  the  wines,  in 
addition  to  directing  the  rehearsals  of  the  Baroness's 
operetta,  which  latter  work  he  most  skilfully  accom- 
plished. Jacquemin  possesses  talents  of  all  kinds;  he 
knows  how  to  make  the  best  of  all  materials.  As  the 
proverb  says,  'A  good  mill  makes  everything  flour. ": 

Jacquemin  had  already  cast  an  eye  over  the  menu  of 
the  Prince's  fete,  and  declared  it  excellent,  very  correct, 
very  pure. 


The  steamer  was  at  last  ready  to  depart,  and  Prince 
Zilah  had  done  the  honors  to  all  his  guests.  It  started 
slowly  off,  the  flags  waving  coquettishly  in  the  breeze, 
while  the  Tzigani  musicians  played  with  spirit  the  vi- 
brating notes  of  the  March  of  Rakoczy,  that  trium- 
phant air  celebrating  the  betrothal  of  Zilah,  as  it  had 
long  ago  saluted  the  burial  of  his  father. 


[74] 


CHAPTER  X 

"IS  FATE  SO  JUST?" 

E  are  moving!  We  are  off!"  cried  the 
lively  little  Baroness.  "I  hope  we 
shan't  be  shipwrecked,"  retorted  Jac- 
quemin;  and  he  then  proceeded  to 
draw  a  comical  picture  of  possible  ad- 
ventures wherein  figured  white  bears, 
icebergs,  and  death  by  starvation.  "A 
subject  for  a  novel, — 'The  Shipwreck 
of  the  Betrothed.'" 

As  they  drew  away  from  Paris,  passing  the  quays  of 
Passy  and  the  taverns  of  Point-du-Jour,  tables  on 
wooden  horses  were  rapidly  erected,  and  covered  with 
snowy  cloths;  and  soon  the  guests  of  the  Prince  were 
seated  about  the  board,  Andras  between  Marsa  and 
the  Baroness,  and  Michel  Menko  some  distance  down 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  The  pretty  women  and 
fashionably  dressed  men  made  the  air  resound  with 
gayety  and  laughter,  while  the  awnings  flapped  joy- 
ously in  the  wind,  and  the  boat  glided  on,  cutting  the 
smooth  water,  in  which  were  reflected  the  long  shadows 
of  the  aspens  and  willows  on  the  banks,  and  the  white 
clouds  floating  in  the  clear  sky.  Every  now  and  then  a 
cry  of  admiration  would  be  uttered  at  some  object  in 
the  panorama  moving  before  them,  the  slopes  of  Su^ 

[75] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

resnes,  the  black  factories  of  Saint-Denis  with  their 
lofty  chimneys,  the  red-roofed  villas  of  Asnieres,  or  the 
heights  of  Marly  dotted  with  little  white  houses. 

"  Ah !    how  pretty  it  is !    How  charming ! ' ' 

"Isn't  it  queer  that  we  have  never  known  anything 
about  all  this?  It  is  a  veritable  voyage  of  discovery." 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  cried,  above  the  other 
voices,  Jacquemin,  whom  Zilah  did  not  know,  and  to 
whom  the  Baroness  had  made  him  give  a  card  of  invi- 
tation, "we  are  now  entering  savage  countries.  It  is 
Kamtschatka,  or  some  such  place,  and  there  must  be 
cannibals  here." 

The  borders  of  the  Seine,  which  were  entirely  fresh  to 
them,  and  which  recalled  the  pictures  of  the  salon,  were 
a  delightful  novelty  to  these  people,  accustomed  to  the 
dusty  streets  of  the  city. 

Seated  between  the  Prince  and  the  Japanese,  and 
opposite  Varhely  and  General  Vogotzine,  the  Baroness 
thoroughly  enjoyed  her  breakfast.  Prince  Andras  had 
not  spared  the  Tokay — that  sweet,  fiery  wine,  of  which 
the  Hungarians  say  proudly:  "It  has  the  color  and  the 
price  of  gold;"  and  the  liquor  disappeared  beneath  the 
moustache  of  the  Russian  Reneral  as  in  a  funnel.  The 
little  Baroness,  as  she  sipped  it  with  pretty  little  airs  of 
an  epicure,  chatted  with  the  Japanese,  and,  eager  to  in- 
crease her  culinary  knowledge,  asked  him  for  the  receipt 
for  a  certain  dish  which  the  little  yellow  fellow  had 
made  her  taste  at  a  dinner  given  at  his  embassy. 

"Send  it  to  me,  will  you,  Yamada?  I  will  have  my 
cook  make  it;  nothing  gives  me  so  much  pleasure  as  to 
be  able  to  offer  to  my  guests  a  new  and  strange  dish,  I 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

will  give  you  the  receipt  also,  Jacquemin.  Oh!  it  is 
such  an  odd-tasting  dish!  It  gives  you  a  sensation  of 
having  been  poisoned." 

"Like  the  guests  in  Lucrezia  Borgia,"  laughed  the 
Parisian  Japanese. 

"Do  you  know  Lucrezia  Borgia?" 

"Oh,  yes;  they  have  sung  it  at  Yokohama.  Oh!  we 
are  no  longer  savages,  Baroness,  believe  me.  If  you 
want  ignorant  barbarians,  you  must  seek  the  Chinese." 

The  little  Japanese  was  proud  of  appearing  so  pro- 
foundly learned  in  European  affairs,  and  his  gimlet  eyes 
sought  an  approving  glance  from  Paul  Jacquemin  or 
Michel  Menko;  but  the  Hungarian  was  neither  listen- 
ing to  nor  thinking  of  Yamada.  He  was  entirely  ab- 
sorbed in  the  contemplation  of  Marsa;  and,  with  lips  a 
little  compressed,  he  fixed  a  strange  look  upon  the  beau- 
tiful young  girl  to  whom  Andras  was  speaking,  and 
who,  very  calm,  almost  grave,  but  evidently  happy,  an- 
swered the  Prince  with  a  sweet  smile. 

There  was  a  sort  of  Oriental  grace  about  Marsa, 
with  her  willowy  figure,  flexible  as  a  Hindoo  convol- 
vulus, and  her  dark  Arabian  eyes  fringed  with  their 
heavy  lashes.  Michel  Menko  took  in  all  the  details  of 
her  beauty,  and  evidently  suffered,  suffered  cruelly,  his 
eyes  invincibly  attracted  toward  her.  In  the  midst  of 
these  other  women,  attired  in  robes  of  the  last  or  the 
next  fashion,  of  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  Marsa,  in 
her  gown  of  black  lace,  was  by  far  the  loveliest  of  them 
all.  Michel  watched  her  every  movement;  but  she, 
quiet,  as  if  a  trifle  weary,  spoke  but  little,  and  only  in 
answer  to  the  Prince  and  Varhely,  and,  when  her  beau- 

[77] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

tiful  eyes  met  those  of  Menko,  she  turned  them  away, 
evidently  avoiding  his  look  with  as  much  care  as  he 
sought  hers. 

The  breakfast  over,  they  rose  from  the  table,  the 
men  lighting  cigars,  and  the  ladies  seeking  the  mirrors 
in  the  cabin  to  rearrange  their  tresses  disheveled  by  the 
wind. 

The  boat  stopped  at  Marly  until  it  was  time  for  the 
lock  to  be  opened,  before  proceeding  to  Maisons-Lafitte, 
where  Marsa  was  to  land.  Many  of  the  passengers, 
with  almost  childish  gayety,  landed,  and  strolled  about 
on  the  green  bank. 

Marsa  was  left  alone,  glad  of  the  silence  which  reigned 
on  the  steamer  after  the  noisy  chatter  of  a  moment  ago. 
She  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  listening  idly  to  the 
swish  of  the  water  along  its  sides. 

Michel  Menko  was  evidently  intending  to  approach 
her,  and  he  had  made  a  few  steps  toward  her,  when  he 
felt  a  hand  laid  upon  his  shoulder.  He  turned,  think- 
ing it  was  the  Prince;  but  it  was  Yanski  Varhely,  who 
said  to  the  young  man : 

"Well,  my  dear  Count,  you  did  right  to  come  from 
London  to  this  jete.  Not  only  is  Zilah  delighted  to  see 
you,  but  the  fantastic  composition  of  the  guests  is  very 
curious.  Baroness  Dinati  has  furnished  us  with  an 
ollapodrida  which  would  have  pleased  her  husband. 
There  is  a  little  of  everything.  Doesn't  it  astonish 
you?" 

"No,"  said  Michel.  "This  hybrid  collection  is  rep- 
resentative of  modern  society.  I  have  met  almost  all 
these  faces  at  Nice;  they  are  to  be  seen  everywhere," 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"To  me,"  retorted  Yanski,  in  his  guttural  voice, 
"  these  people  are  phenomena." 

"  Phenomena  ?  Not  at  all.  Life  of  to-day  is  so  com- 
plicated that  the  most  unexpected  people  and  events 
find  their  place  in  it.  You  have  not  lived,  Varhely,  or 
you  have  lived  only  for  your  idol,  your  country,  and 
everything  amazes  you.  If  you  had,  like  me,  wandered 
all  over  the  world,  you  would  not  be  astonished  at  any- 
thing; although,  to  tell  the  truth" — and  the  young 
man's  voice  became  bitter,  trenchant,  and  almost  threat- 
ening— "we  have  only  to  grow  old  to  meet  with  terrible 
surprises,  very  hard  to  bear." 

As  he  spoke,  he  glanced,  involuntarily  perhaps,  at 
Marsa  Laszlo,  leaning  on  the  railing  just  below  him. 

"Oh!  don't  speak  of  old  age  before  you  have  passed 
through  the  trials  that  Zilah  and  I  have,"  responded 
Varhely.  "At  eighteen,  Andras  Zilah  could  have  said: 
'I  am  old.'  He  was  in  mourning  at  one  and  the  same 
time  for  all  his  people  and  for  our  country.  But  you! 
You  have  grown  up,  my  dear  fellow,  in  happy  times. 
Austria,  loosening  her  clutch,  has  permitted  you  to 
love  and  serve  our  cause  at  your  ease.  You  were  born 
rich,  you  married  the  most  charming  of  women  "- 

Michel  frowned. 

"That  is,  it  is  true,  the  sorrow  of  your  life,"  contin- 
ued Varhely.  "It  seems  to  me  only  yesterday  that  you 
lost  the  poor  child." 

"It  is  over  two  years,  however,"  said  Michel,  gravely. 
1 1  Two  years !  How  time  flies ! ' ' 

"She  was  so  charming,"  said  old  Yanski,  not  per- 
the  expression  of  annoyance  mingled  with  sad- 


JULES  CLARETIE 

ness  which  passed  over  the  young  man's  face.  "I 
knew  your  dear  wife  when  she  was  quite  small,  hi  her 
father's  house.  He  gave  me  an  asylum  at  Prague,  after 
the  capitulation  signed  by  Georgei.  Although  I  was  an 
Hungarian,  and  he  a  Bohemian,  her  father  and  I  were 
great  friends." 

"Yes,"  said  Menko,  rapidly,  "she  often  spoke  of 
you,  my  dear  Varhely.  They  taught  her  to  love  you, 
too.  But,"  evidently  seeking  to  turn  the  conversation 
to  avoid  a  subject  which  was  painful  to  him,  "you 
spoke  of  Georgei.  Ah!  our  generation  has  never 
known  your  brave  hopes;  and  your  grief,  believe  me, 
was  better  than  our  boredom.  We  are  useless  encum- 
berers  of  the  earth.  Upon  my  word,  it  seems  to  me  that 
we  are  unsettled,  enfeebled,  loving  nothing  and  loving 
everything,  ready  to  commit  all  sorts  of  follies.  I  envy 
you  those  days  of  battle,  those  magnificent  deeds  of 
'forty-eight  and  'forty-nine.  To  fight  thus  was  to 
live!" 

But  even  while  he  spoke,  his  thin  face  became  more 
melancholy,  and  his  eyes  again  sought  the  direction  of 
Prince  Andras's  fiancee. 

After  a  little  more  desultory  conversation,  he  strolled 
away  from  Varhely,  and  gradually  approached  Marsa, 
who,  her  chin  resting  on  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  low- 
ered, seemed  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  cease- 
less flow  of  the  water. 

Greatly  moved,  pulling  his  moustache,  and  glancing 
with  a  sort  of  uneasiness  at  Prince  Andras,  who  was 
promenading  on  the  bank  with  the  Baroness,  Michel 
Menko  paused  before  addressing  Marsa,  who  had  not 

[80] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

perceived  his  approach,  and  who  was  evidently  far 
away  in  some  day-dream. 

Gently,  hesitatingly,  and  in  a  low  voice,  he  at  last 
spoke  her  name : 

"Marsa!" 

The  Tzigana  started  as  if  moved  by  an  electric 
shock,  and,  turning  quickly,  met  the  supplicating  eyes 
of  the  young  man. 

" Marsa!"  repeated  Michel,  in  a  humble  tone  of  en- 
treaty. 

"What  do  you  wish  of  me?"  she  said.  "Why  do 
you  speak  to  me?  You  must  have  seen  what  care  I 
have  taken  to  avoid  you." 

"It  is  that  which  has  wounded  me  to  the  quick. 
You  are  driving  me  mad.  If  you  only  knew  what  I  am 
suffering!" 

He  spoke  almost  in  a  whisper,  and  very  rapidly,  as  if 
he  felt  that  seconds  were  worth  centuries. 

She  answered  him  in  a  cutting,  pitiless  tone,  harsher 
even  than  the  implacable  look  in  her  dark  eyes.  "You 
suffer?  Is  fate  so  just  as  that ?  You  suffer?" 

Her  tone  and  expression  made  Michel  Menko  trem- 
ble as  if  each  syllable  of  these  few  words  was  a  blow  in 
the  face. 

"Marsa!"  he  exclaimed,  imploringly.    "Marsa!" 

"My  name  is  Marsa  Laszlo;  and,  in  a  few  days,  I 
shall  be  Princess  Zilah,"  responded  the  young  girl, 
passing  haughtily  by  him,  "and  I  think  you  will  hardly 
force  me  to  make  you  remember  it." 

She  uttered  these  words  so  resolutely,  haughtily,  al- 
most disdainfully,  and  accompanied  them  with  such  a 
6  [81] 


flash  from  her  beautiful  eyes  that  Menko  instinctively 
bowed  his  head,  murmuring: 

"Forgive  me!" 

But  he  drove  his  nails  into  the  palm  of  his  clenched 
hand  as  he  saw  her  leave  that  part  of  the  boat,  and 
retire  as  far  from  him  as  she  could,  as  if  his  presence 
were  an  insult  to  her.  Tears  of  rage  started  into  the 
young  man's  eyes  as  he  watched  her  graceful  figure  re- 
sume its  former  posture  of  dreamy  absorption. 


[82] 


CHAPTER  XI 

A   RIVER   F&TE 

LOSE  alongside  of  the  Prince's  boat, 
waiting  also  for  the  opening  of  the 
lock,  was  one  of  those  great  barges 
which  carry  wood  or  charcoal  up  and 
down  the  Seine. 

A  whole  family  often  lives  on  board 
these  big,  heavy  boats.  The  smoke  of 
the  kitchen  fire  issues  from  a  sort  of 
wooden  cabin  where  several  human  beings  breathe,  eat, 
sleep,  are  born  and  die,  sometimes  without  hardly 
ever  having  set  foot  upon  the  land.  Pots  of  geranium 
or  begonia  give  a  bit  of  bright  color  to  the  dingy  sur- 
roundings; and  the  boats  travel  slowly  along  the  river, 
impelled  by  enormous  oars,  which  throw  long  shadows 
upon  the  water. 

It  was  this  motionless  barge  that  Marsa  was  now  re- 
garding. 

The  hot  sun,  falling  upon  the  boat,  made  its  brown, 
wet  sides  sparkle  like  the  brilliant  wings  of  some  gigan- 
tic scarabee;  and,  upon  the  patched,  scorched  deck, 
six  or  seven  half -naked,  sunburned  children,  boys  and 
girls,  played  at  the  feet  of  a  bundle  of  rags  and  brown 
flesh,  which  was  a  woman,  a  young  woman,  but  prema- 
turely old  and  wasted,  who  was  nursing  a  little  baby. 

[83] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

A  little  farther  off,  two  men — one  tough  and  strong, 
a  man  of  thirty,  whom  toil  had  made  forty,  the  other 
old,  wrinkled,  white-haired  and  with  skin  like  leather, 
father  and  grandfather,  doubtless,  of  the  little  brats  be- 
yond— were  eating  bread  and  cheese,  and  drinking, 
turn  by  turn,  out  of  a  bottle  of  wine,  which  they  swal- 
lowed in  gulps.  The  halt  was  a  rest  to  these  poor 
people. 

As  Marsa  watched  them,  she  seemed  to  perceive  in 
these  wanderers  of  the  river,  as  in  a  vision,  those  other 
wanderers  of  the  Hungarian  desert,  her  ancestors,  the 
Tzigani,  camped  in  the  puszta,  the  boundless  plain, 
crouched  down  in  the  long  grass  beneath  the  shade  of 
the  bushes,  and  playing  their  beautiful  national  airs. 
She  saw  the  distant  fires  of  the  bivouac  of  those  un- 
known Tzigani  whose  daughter  she  was;  she  seemed  to 
breathe  again  the  air  of  that  country  she  had  seen  but 
once,  when  upon  a  mournful  pilgrimage;  and,  in  the 
presence  of  that  poor  bargeman's  wife,  with  her  skin 
tanned  by  the  sun,  she  thought  of  her  dead,  her  cher- 
ished dead,  Tisza. 

Tisza!  To  the  gipsy  had  doubtless  been  given  the 
name  of  the  river  on  the  banks  of  which  she  had  been 
born.  They  called  the  mother  Tisza,  in  Hungary,  as 
In  Paris  they  called  the  daughter  the  Tzigana.  And 
Marsa  was  proud  of  her  nickname;  she  loved  these 
Tzigani,  whose  blood  flowed  in  her  veins;  sons  of 
India,  perhaps,  who  had  descended  to  the  valley  of  the 
Danube,  and  who  for  centuries  had  lived  free  in  the 
open  air,  electing  their  chiefs,  and  having  a  king  ap- 
pointed by  the  Palatine — a  king,  who  commanding 

[84] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

beggars,  bore,  nevertheless,  the  name  of  Magnificent; 
indestructible  tribes,  itinerant  republics,  musicians 
playing  the  old  airs  of  their  nation,  despite  the  Turkish 
sabre  and  the  Austrian  police ;  agents  of  patriotism  and 
liberty,  guardians  of  the  old  Hungarian  honor. 

These  poor  people,  passing  their  lives  upon  the  river 
as  the  Tzigani  lived  in  the  fields  and  hedges,  seemed  to 
Marsa  like  the  very  spectres  of  her  race.  More  than  the 
musicians  with  embroidered  vests  did  the  poor  prison- 
ers of  the  solitary  barge  recall  to  her  the  great  pro- 
scribed family  of  her  ancestors. 

She  called  to  the  children  playing  upon  the  sun- 
beaten  deck:  "Come  here,  and  hold  up  your  aprons!" 

They  obeyed,  spreading  out  their  little  tattered  gar- 
ments. "Catch  these!"  she  cried. 

They  could  not  believe  their  eyes.  From  the  steamer 
she  threw  down  to  them  mandarins,  grapes,  ripe  figs, 
yellow  apricots,  and  great  velvety  peaches;  a  rain  of 
dainties  which  would  have  surprised  a  gourmand :  the 
poor  little  things,  delighted  and  afraid  at  the  same  time, 
wondered  if  the  lady,  who  gave  them  such  beautiful 
fruit,  was  a  fairy. 

The  mother  then  rose ;  and,  coming  toward  Marsa  to 
thank  her,  her  sunburnt  skin  glowing  a  deeper  red,  the 
poor  woman,  with  tears  in  her  tired  eyes,  and  a  wan  smile 
upon  her  pale  lips,  touched,  surprised,  happy  in  the  pleas- 
ure of  her  children,  murmured,  faltering  and  confused : 

"Ah!  Madame!  Madame!  how  good  you  are! 
You  are  too  good,  Madame!" 

"We  must  share  what  we  have!"  said  Marsa,  with  a 
smile.  "See  how  happy  the  children  are!" 

[85] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Very  happy,  Madame.  They  are  not  accustomed 
to  such  things.  Say  'Thank  you,'  to  the  beautiful 
lady.  Say  'Thank  you,'  Jean;  you  are  the  oldest.  Say 
like  this :  '  Thank — you — Ma — dame.' ' 

"Thank — you — Ma — dame"  faltered  the  boy,  rais- 
ing to  Marsa  big,  timid  eyes,  which  did  not  understand 
why  anybody  should  either  wish  him  ill  or  do  him  a 
kindness.  And  other  low,  sweet  little  voices  repeated, 
like  a  refrain:  "Thank — you — Ma — dame." 

The  two  men,  in  astonishment,  came  and  stood  be- 
hind the  children,  and  gazed  silently  at  Marsa. 

"And  your  baby,  Madame?"  said  the  Tzigana,  look- 
ing at  the  sleeping  infant,  that  still  pressed  its  rosy  lips 
to  the  mother's  breast.  "How  pretty  it  is!  Will  you 
permit  me  to  offer  it  its  baptismal  dress?" 

"Its  baptismal  dress?"  repeated  the  mother. 

"Oh,  Madame!"  ejaculated  the  father,  twisting  his 
cap  between  his  fingers. 

"Or  a  cloak,  just  as  you  please,"  added  Marsa. 

The  poor  people  on  the  barge  made  no  reply,  but 
looked  at  one  another  in  bewilderment. 

"Is  it  a  little  girl?"  asked  the  Tzigana. 

"No,  Madame,  no,"  responded  the  mother.  "A 
boy." 

"Come  here,  Jean,"  said  Marsa  to  the  oldest  child. 
"Yes,  come  here,  my  little  man." 

Jean  came  forward,  glancing  askance  at  his  mother, 
as  if  to  know  whether  he  should  obey. 

"Here,  Jean,"  said  the  young  girl,  "this  is  for  your 
baby  brother." 

And  into  the  little  joined  hands  of  the  boy,  Marsa  let 

[86] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

fall  a  purse,  through  whose  meshes  shone  yellow  pieces 
of  gold. 

The  people  of  the  barge  thought  they  were  dreaming, 
and  stood  open-mouthed  in  amazement,  while  Jean 
cried  out : 

"Mamma,  see,  mamma!    Mamma!    Mamma!" 

Then  the  younger  bargeman  said  to  Marsa: 

"Madame,  no,  no!  we  can  not  accept.  It  is  too 
much.  You  are  too  good.  Give  it  back,  Jean." 

"It  is  true,  Madame,"  faltered  his  wife.  "It  is  im- 
possible. It  is  too  much." 

"You  will  cause  me  great  pain  if  you  refuse  to  accept 
it,"  said  Marsa.  "Chance  has  brought  us  together  for 
a  moment,  and  I  am  superstitious.  I  would  like  to 
have  the  little  children  pray  that  those  I  love — that  the 
one  I  love  may  be  happy."  And  she  turned  her  eyes 
upon  Prince  Andras,  who  had  returned  to  the  deck,  and 
was  coming  toward  her. 

The  lock  was  now  opened. 

"All  aboard!"  shouted  the  captain  of  the  steamer. 

The  poor  woman  upon  the  barge  tried  to  reach  the 
hand  of  Marsa  to  kiss  it. 

"May  you  be  happy,  Madame,  and  thank  you  with 
all  our  hearts  for  your  goodness  to  both  big  and 
little." 

The  two  bargemen  bowed  low  in  great  emotion,  and 
the  whole  bevy  of  little  ones  blew  kisses  to  the  beautiful 
lady  in  the  black  dress,  whom  the  steamer  was  already 
bearing  away. 

"At  least  tell  us  your  name,  Madame,"  cried  the 
father.  "Your  name,  that  we  may  never  forget  you." 

[87] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

A  lovely  smile  appeared  on  Marsa's  lips,  and,  in  al- 
most melancholy  accents,  she  said : 

"My  name!"  Then,  after  a  pause,  proudly:  "The 
Tzigana!" 

The  musicians,  as  she  spoke,  suddenly  struck  up  one 
of  the  Hungarian  airs.  Then,  as  in  a  flying  vision,  the 
poor  bargemen  saw  the  steamer  move  farther  and  far- 
ther away,  a  long  plume  of  smoke  waving  behind  it. 

Jacquemin,  hearing  one  of  those  odd  airs,  which  in 
Hungary  start  all  feet  moving  and  keeping  time  to  the 
music,  exclaimed: 

"A  quadrille!  Let  us  dance  a  quadrille!  An  Hun- 
garian quadrille ! ' ' 

The  poor  people  on  the  barge  listened  to  the  music, 
gradually  growing  fainter  and  fainter;  and  they  would 
have  believed  that  they  had  been  dreaming,  if  the  purse 
had  not  been  there,  a  fortune  for  them,  and  the  fruit 
which  the  children  were  eating.  The  mother,  without 
understanding,  repeated  that  mysterious  name:  "The 
Tzigana." 

And  Marsa  also  gazed  after  them,  her  ears  caressed 
by  the  czardas  of  the  musicians.  The  big  barge  disap- 
peared in  the  distance  in  a  luminous  haze ;  but  the  Tzig- 
ana could  still  vaguely  perceive  the  little  beings  perched 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  men,  and  waving,  in  sign  of 
farewell,  pieces  of  white  cloth  which  their  mother  had 
given  them. 

A  happy  torpor  stole  over  Marsa;  and,  while  the 
guests  of  the  Baroness  Dinati,  the  Japanese  Yamada, 
the  English  heiresses,  the  embassy  attaches,  all  these 
Parisian  foreigners,  led  by  Jacquemin,  the  director  of 

[88] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

the  gayety,  were  organizing  a  ballroom  on  the  deck, 
and  asking  the  Tzigani  for  polkas  of  Fahrbach  and 
waltzes  of  Strauss,  the  young  girl  heard  the  voice  of 
Andras  murmur  low  in  her  ear : 

"  Ah !  how  I  love  you !  And  do  you  love  me,  Marsa  ?  " 

"I  am  happy,"  she  answered,  without  moving,  and 
half  closing  her  eyes,  "and,  if  it  were  necessary  for  me 
to  give  my  life  for  you,  I  would  give  it  gladly." 

In  the  stern  of  the  boat,  Michel  Menko  watched, 
without  seeing  them,  perhaps,  the  fields,  the  houses  of 
Pecq,  the  villas  of  Saint-Germain,  the  long  terrace 
below  heavy  masses  of  trees,  the  great  plain  beside 
Paris  with  Mont  Valerien  rising  in  its  midst,  the  two 
towers  of  the  Trocadero,  whose  gilded  dome  sparkled 
in  the  sun,  and  the  bluish-black  cloud  which  hung  over 
the  city  like  a  thick  fog. 

The  boat  advanced  very  slowly,  as  if  Prince  Andras 
had  given  the  order  to  delay  as  much  as  possible  the 
arrival  at  Maisons-Lafitte,  where  the  whole  jete  would 
end  for  him,  as  Marsa  was  to  land  there.  Already, 
upon  the  horizon  could  be  perceived  the  old  mill,  with 
its  broad,  slated  roof.  The  steeple  of  Sartrouville 
loomed  up  above  the  red  roofs  of  the  houses  and  the 
poplars  which  fringe  the  bank  of  the  river.  A  pale 
blue  light,  like  a  thin  mist,  enveloped  the  distant 
landscape. 

"The  dream  is  over,"  murmured  Marsa. 

"A  far  more  beautiful  one  will  soon  begin,"  said 
Andras,  "and  that  one  will  be  the  realization  of  what  I 
have  waited  for  all  my  life  and  never  found — love." 

Marsa  turned  to  the  Prince  with  a  look  full  of  pas- 

[89] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

sionate  admiration  and  devotion,  which  told  him  how 
thoroughly  his  love  was  returned. 

The  quadrille  had  ended,  and  a  waltz  was  beginning. 
The  little  Japanese,  with  his  eternal  smile,  like  the 
bronze  figures  of  his  country,  was  dancing  with  a  pre- 
raphaelite  English  girl. 

"How  well  you  dance,"  she  said. 

"If  we  only  had  some  favors,"  replied  the  Japanese, 
showing  his  teeth  in  a  grin,  "I  would  lead  the  co- 
tillon." 

The  boat  stopped  at  last  at  Maisons-Lafitte.  The 
great  trees  of  the  park  formed  a  heavy  mass,  amid 
which  the  roof  of  the  villa  was  just  discernible. 

"What  a  pity  it  is  all  over,"  cried  the  Baroness,  who 
was  ruddy  as  a  cherry  with  the  exercise  of  dancing. 
"Let  us  have  another;  but  Maisons-Lafitte  is  too  near. 
We  will  go  to  Rouen  the  next  time;  or  rather,  I  invite 
you  all  to  a  day  fete  in  Paris,  a  game  of  polo,  a  lunch, 
a  garden  party,  whatever  you  like.  I  will  arrange  the 
programme  with  Yamada  and  Jacquemin." 

"Willingly,"  responded  the  Japanese,  with  a  low 
bow.  "To  collaborate  with  Monsieur  Jacquemin  will 
be  very  amusing." 

As  Marsa  Laszlo  was  leaving  the  boat,  Michel  Menko 
stood  close  to  the  gangway,  doubtless  on  purpose  to 
speak  to  her;  and,  in  the  confusion  of  landing,  without 
any  one  hearing  him,  he  breathed  in  her  ear  these  brief 
words : 

"At  your  house  this  evening.    I  must  see  you." 

She  gave  him  an  icy  glance.  Michel  Menko's  eyes 
were  at  once  full  of  tears  and  flames. 

[90] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"I  demand  it!"  he  said,  firmly. 

The  Tzigana  made  no  reply;  but,  going  to  Andras 
Zilah,  she  took  his  arm ;  while  Michel,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  raised  his  hat. 

General  Vogotzine,  with  flaming  face,  followed  his 
niece,  muttering,  as  he  wiped  the  perspiration  unsteadily 
from  his  face: 

"Fine  day!  Fine  day!  By  Jove!  But  the  sun  was 
hot,  though!  Ah,  and  the  wines  were  good!" 


CHAPTER  XII 


A  DARK  PAGE 

Marsa  departed  with  Vogotzine  in  the 
carriage  which  had  been  waiting  for 
them  on  the  bank,  she  waved  her  hand 
to  Zilah  with  a  passionate  gesture, 
implying  an  infinity  of  trouble,  sad- 
ness, and  love.  The  Prince  then 
returned  to  his  guests,  and  the  boat, 
which  Marsa  watched  through  the 
window  of  the  carriage,  departed,  bearing  away  the 
dream,  as  she  had  said  to  Andras.  During  the  drive 
home  she  did  not  say  a  word.  By  her  side  the  General 
grumbled  sleepily  of  the  sun,  which,  the  Tokay  aiding, 
had  affected  his  head.  But,  when  Marsa  was  alone 
in  her  chamber,  the  cry  which  was  wrung  from  her 
breast  was  a  cry  of  sorrow,  of  despairing  anger: 

"Ah,  when  I  think — when  I  think  that  I  am  envied!" 
She  regretted  having  allowed  Andras  to  depart  with- 
out having  told  him  on  the  spot,  the  secret  of  her  life. 
She  would  not  see  him  again  until  the  next  day,  and  she 
felt  as  if  she  could  never  live  through  the  long,  dull 
hours.  She  stood  at  the  window,  wrapped  in  thought, 
gazing  mechanically  before  her,  and  still  hearing  the 
voice  of  Michel  Menko  hissing  like  a  snake  in  her  ear. 
What  was  it  this  man  had  said  ?  She  did  not  dare  to 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

believe  it.  "I  demand  it!"  He  had  said:  "I  demand 
it!"  Perhaps  some  one  standing  near  had  heard  it. 
"I  demand  it!" 

Evening  came.  Below  the  window  the  great  masses 
of  the  chestnut-trees  and  the  lofty  crests  of  the  poplars 
waved  in  the  breeze  like  forest  plumes,  their  peaks 
touched  by  the  sun  setting  in  a  sky  of  tender  blue,  while 
the  shadowy  twilight  crept  over  the  park  where,  through 
the  branches,  patches  of  yellow  light,  like  golden  and 
copper  vapors,  still  gave  evidence  of  the  god  of  day. 

Marsa,  her  heart  full  of  a  melancholy  which  the  twi- 
light increased,  repeated  over  and  over  again,  with  shud- 
ders of  rage  and  disgust,  those  three  words  which  Michel 
Menko  had  hurled  at  her  like  a  threat:  "I  demand  it!" 
Suddenly  she  heard  in  the  garden  the  baying  of  dogs, 
and  she  saw,  held  in  check  by  a  domestic,  Duna  and 
Bundas,  bounding  through  the  masses  of  flowers  toward 
the  gate,  where  a  man  appeared,  whom  Marsa,  leaning 
over  the  balcony,  recognized  at  once. 

"The  wretch!"  she  exclaimed  between  her  clenched 
teeth.  It  was  Menko. 

He  must  have  debarked  before  reaching  Paris,  and 
have  come  to  Maisons-Lafitte  in  haste. 

Marsa's  only  thought,  in  the  first  moment  of  anger, 
was  to  refuse  to  see  him.  "I  can  not,"  she  thought,  "I 
will  not!"  Then  suddenly  her  mind  changed.  It  was 
braver  and  more  worthy  of  her  to  meet  the  danger  face 
to  face.  She  rang,  and  said  to  the  domestic  who  an- 
swered the  bell:  "Show  Count  Menko  into  the  little 
salon." 

"We  shall  see  what  he  will  dare,"  muttered  the  Tzig- 

[93] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

ana,  glancing  at  the  mirror  as  if  to  see  whether  she  ap- 
peared to  tremble  before  danger  and  an  enemy. 

The  little  salon  into  which  the  young  Count  was  in- 
troduced was  in  the  left  wing  of  the  villa;  and  it  was 
Marsa's  favorite  room,  because  it  was  so  quiet  there. 
She  had  furnished  it  with  rare  taste,  in  half  Byzantine 
and  half  Hindoo  fashion — a  long  divan  running  along 
the  wall,  covered  with  gray  silk  striped  with  garnet; 
Persian  rugs  cast  here  and  there  at  random;  paintings 
by  Petenkofen — Hungarian  farms  and  battle-scenes, 
sentinels  lost  in  the  snow;  two  consoles  loaded  with 
books,  reviews,  and  bric-a-brac ;  and  a  round  table  with 
Egyptian  incrustations,  covered  with  an  India  shawl, 
upon  which  were  fine  bronzes  of  Lanceray,  and  little 
jewelled  daggers. 

This  salon  communicated  with  a  much  larger  one, 
where  General  Vogotzine  usually  took  his  siesta,  and 
which  Marsa  abandoned  to  him,  preferring  the  little 
room,  the  windows  of  which,  framed  in  ivy,  looked  out 
upon  the  garden,  with  the  forest  in  the  distance. 

Michel  Menko  was  well  acquainted  with  this  little 
salon,  where  he  had  more  than  once  seen  Marsa  seated 
at  the  piano  playing  her  favorite  airs.  He  remembered 
it  all  so  well,  and,  nervously  twisting  his  moustache,  he 
longed  for  her  to  make  her  appearance.  He  listened  for 
the  frou-frou  of  Marsa's  skirts  on  the  other  side  of  the 
lowered  portiere  which  hung  between  the  two  rooms; 
but  he  heard  no  sound. 

The  General  had  shaken  hands  with  Michel,  as  he 
passed  through  the  large  salon,  saying,  in  his  thick 
voice ; 

[94] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"Have  you  come  to  see  Marsa?  You  have  had 
enough  of  that  water-party,  then?  It  was  very  pretty; 
but  the  sun  was  devilish  hot.  My  head  is  burning  now; 
but  it  serves  me  right  for  not  remaining  quiet  at  home." 

Then  he  raised  his  heavy  person  from  the  armchair 
he  had  been  sitting  in,  and  went  out  into  the  garden, 
saying:  "I  prefer  to  smoke  in  the  open  air;  it  is  stifling 
in  here."  Marsa,  who  saw  Vogotzine  pass  out,  let  him 
go,  only  too  willing  to  have  him  at  a  distance  during  her 
interview  with  Michel  Menko ;  and  then  she  boldly  en- 
tered the  little  salon,  where  the  Count,  who  had  heard 
her  approach,  was  standing  erect  as  if  expecting  some 
attack. 

Marsa  closed  the  door  behind  her;  and,  before 
speaking  a  word,  the  two  faced  each  other,  as  if  meas- 
uring the  degree  of  hardihood  each  possessed.  The 
Tzigana,  opening  fire  first,  said,  bravely  and  without 
preamble : 

"Well,  you  wished  to  see  me.  Here  I  am!  What  do 
you  want  of  me?" 

"To  ask  you  frankly  whether  it  is  true,  Marsa,  that 
you  are  about  to  marry  Prince  Zilah." 

She  tried  to  laugh;  but  her  laugh  broke  nervously 
off.  She  said,  however,  ironically: 

" Oh!  is  it  for  that  that  you  are  here ?" 

"Yes." 

"It  was  perfectly  useless,  then,  for  you  to  take  the 
trouble:  you  ask  me  a  thing  which  you  know  well, 
which  all  the  world  knows,  which  all  the  world  must 
have  told  you,  since  you  had  the  audacity  to  be  present 
at  that  fete  to-day." 

[95] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"That  is  true,"  said  Michel,  coldly;  "but  I  only 
learned  it  by  chance.  I  wished  to  hear  it  from  your 
own  lips." 

"Do  I  owe  you  any  account  of  my  conduct?"  asked 
Marsa,  with  crushing  hauteur. 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  strode  across  the  room,  laid 
his  hat  down  upon  the  little  table,  and  suddenly  be- 
coming humble,  not  in  attitude,  but  in  voice,  said : 

"Listen,  Marsa:  you  are  a  hundred  times  right  to 
hate  me.  I  have  deceived  you,  lied  to  you.  I  have  con- 
ducted myself  in  a  manner  unworthy  of  you,  unworthy 
of  myself.  But  to  atonef  or  my  fault — my  crime,  if  you 
will — I  am  ready  to  do  anything  you  order,  to  be  your 
miserable  slave,  in  order  to  obtain  the  pardon  which  I 
have  come  to  ask  of  you,  and  which  I  will  ask  on  my 
knees,  if  you  command  me  to  do  so." 

The  Tzigana  frowned. 

"I  have  nothing  to  pardon  you,  nothing  to  command 
you,"  she  said  with  an  air  more  wearied  than  stern, 
humiliating,  and  disdainful.  "I  only  ask  you  to  leave 
me  in  peace,  and  never  appear  again  in  my  life." 

"So!  I  see  that  you  do  not  understand  me,"  said 
Michel,  with  sudden  brusqueness. 

"No,  I  acknowledge  it,  not  in  the  least." 

"When  I  asked  you  whether  you  were  to  marry  Prince 
Andras,  didn't  you  understand  that  I  asked  you  also  an- 
other thing :  Will  you  marry  me,  me — Michel  Menko  ?  " 

"You!"  cried  the  Tzigana. 

And  there  was  in  this  cry,  in  this  "You!"  ejaculated 
with  a  rapid  movement  of  recoil — amazement,  fright, 
scorn,  and  anger. 

[96] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"You!"  she  said  again.  And  Michel  Menko  felt  in 
this  word  a  mass  of  bitter  rancor  and  stifled  hatred 
which  suddenly  burst  its  bonds. 

"Yes,  me!"  he  said,  braving  the  insult  of  Marsa's  cry 
and  look.  "Me,  who  love  you,  and  whom  you  have 
loved!" 

"Ah,  don't  dare  to  say  that!"  she  cried,  drawing 
close  to  the  little  table  where  the  daggers  rested  amid 
the  objects  of  art.  "Don't  be  vile  enough  to  speak  to 
me  of  a  past  of  which  nothing  remains  to  me  but  dis- 
gust! Let  not  one  word  which  recalls  it  to  me  mount 
to  your  lips,  not  one,  you  understand,  or  I  will  kill  you 
like  the  coward  you  are!" 

"Do  so,  Marsa!"  he  cried  with  wild,  mad  passion. 
"I  should  die  by  your  hand,  and  you  would  not  marry 
that  man!" 

Afraid  of  herself,  wresting  her  eyes  from  the  glitter- 
ing daggers,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  divan,  her 
hands  clasped  tightly  in  her  lap,  and  watched,  with  the 
look  of  a  tigress,  Michel,  who  said  to  her  now,  in  a  voice 
which  trembled  with  the  tension  of  his  feelings:  "You 
must  know  well,  Marsa,  that  death  is  not  the  thing  that 
can  frighten  a  man  like  me !  What  does  frighten  me  is 
that,  having  lost  you  once,  I  may  lose  you  forever;  to 
know  that  another  will  be  your  husband,  will  love  you, 
will  receive  your  kisses.  The  very  idea  that  that  is  pos- 
sible drives  me  insane.  I  feel  myself  capable  of  any 
deed  of  madness  to  prevent  it.  Marsa!  Marsa!  You 
did  love  me  once!" 

"I  love  honor,  truth,  justice,"  said  Marsa,  sternly  and 
implacably.  "I  thought  I  loved  you;  but  I  never  did." 
7  [97] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"You  did  not  love  me?"  he  said. 

This  cruel  recalling  of  the  past,  which  was  the  re- 
morse of  her  life,  was  like  touching  her  flesh  with  a 
red-hot  iron. 

"No,  no,  no!  I  did  not  love  you!  I  repeat,  I  thought 
I  loved  you.  What  did  I  know  of  life  when  I  met  you  ? 
I  was  suffering,  ill ;  I  thought  myself  dying,  and  I  never 
heard  a  word  of  pity  fall  from  any  other  lips  than  yours. 
I  thought  you  were  a  man  of  honor.  You  were  only  a 
wretch.  You  deceived  me ;  you  represented  yourself  to 
me  as  free — and  you  were  married.  Weakly — oh,  I 
could  kill  myself  at  the  very  thought ! — I  listened  to  you ! 
I  took  for  love  the  trite  phrases  you  had  used  to  dozens 
of  other  women;  half  by  violence,  half  by  ruse,  you  be- 
came my  lover.  I  do  not  know  when — I  do  not  know 
how.  I  try  to  forget  that  horrible  dream;  and  when, 
deluded  by  you,  thinking  that  what  I  felt  for  you  was 
love,  for  I  did  think  so,  I  imagined  that  I  had  given  my- 
self for  life  to  a  man  worthy  of  the  deepest  devotion, 
ready  for  all  sacrifices  for  me,  as  I  felt  myself  to  be  for 
him ;  when  you  had  taken  me,  body  and  soul,  I  learn — by 
what?  by  a  trifling  conversation,  by  a  chance,  in  a 
crowded  ballroom — that  this  Michel  Menko,  whose 
name  I  was  to  bear,  who  was  to  be  my  husband;  this 
Count  Menko,  this  man  of  honor,  the  one  in  whom  I 
believed  blindly,  was  married !  Married  at  Vienna,  and 
had  already  given  away  the  name  on  which  he  traded! 
Oh,  it  is  hideous!"  And  the  Tzigana,  whose  whole 
body  was  shuddering  with  horror,  recoiled  instinctively 
to  the  edge  of  the  divan  as  at  the  approach  of  some  de- 
tested contact. 

[98] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

Michel,  his  face  pale  and  convulsed,  had  listened  to 
her  with  bowed  head. 

"All  that  you  say  is  the  truth,  Marsa;  but  I  will  give 
my  life,  my  whole  life,  to  expiate  that  lie!" 

"There  are  infamies  which  are  never  effaced.  There 
is  no  pardon  for  him  who  has  no  excuse." 

"No  excuse?  Yes,  Marsa;  I  have  one!  I  have  one: 
I  loved  you!" 

"And  because  you  loved  me,  was  it  necessary  for 
you  to  betray  me,  lie  to  me,  ruin  me?" 

"What  could  I  do?  I  did  not  love  the  wroman  I  had 
married;  you  dawned  on  me  like  a  beautiful  vision;  I 
wished,  hoping  I  know  not  what  impossible  future,  to 
be  near  you,  to  make  you  love  me,  and  I  did  not  dare  to 
confess  that  I  was  not  free.  If  I  lied  to  you,  it  was  be- 
cause I  trembled  at  not  being  able  to  surround  you  with 
my  devotion;  it  was  because  I  was  afraid  to  lose  your 
love,  knowing  that  the  adoration  I  had  for  you  would 
never  die  till  my  heart  was  cold  and  dead!  Upon  all 
that  is  most  sacred,  I  swear  this  to  you!  I  swear  it!" 

He  then  recalled  to  her,  while  she  sat  rigid  and  mo- 
tionless with  an  expression  of  contempt  and  disdain 
upon  her  beautiful,  proud  lips,  their  first  meetings ;  that 
evening  at  Lady  Brolway's,  in  Pau,  where  he  had  met 
her  for  the  first  time;  their  conversation;  the  inefface- 
able impression  produced  upon  him  by  her  beauty; 
that  winter  season;  the  walks  they  had  taken  together 
beneath  the  trees,  which  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred; 
their  excursions  in  the  purple  and  gold  valleys,  with  the 
Pyrenees  in  the  distance  crowned  with  eternal  snow. 
Did  she  not  remember  their  long  talks  upon  the  terrace, 

[99] 


the  evenings  which  felt  like  spring,  and  that  day  when 
she  had  been  nearly  killed  by  a  runaway  horse,  and  he 
had  seized  the  animal  by  the  bridle  and  saved  her  life  ? 
Yes,  he  had  loved  her,  loved  her  well;  and  it  was  be- 
cause, possessing  her  love,  he  feared,  like  a  second 
Adam,  to  see  himself  driven  out  of  paradise,  that  he 
had  hidden  from  Marsa  the  truth.  If  she  had  ques- 
tioned one  of  the  Hungarians  or  Viennese,  who  were 
living  at  Pau,  she  could  doubtless  have  known  that 
Count  Menko,  the  first  secretary  of  the  embassy  of 
Austria-Hungary  at  Paris,  had  married  the  heiress  of 
one  of  the  richest  families  of  Prague;  a  pretty  but  un- 
intelligent girl,  not  understanding  at  all  the  character 
of  her  husband ;  detesting  Vienna  and  Paris,  and  grad- 
ually exacting  from  Menko  that  he  should  live  at 
Prague,  near  her  family,  whose  ancient  ideas  and  prej- 
udices and  inordinate  love  of  money  displeased  the 
young  Hungarian.  He  was  left  free  to  act  as  he  pleased ; 
his  wife  would  willingly  give  up  a  part  of  her  dowry  to 
regain  her  independence.  It  was  only  just,  she  said  in- 
solently, that,  having  been  mistaken  as  to  the  tastes  of 
the  man  she  had  married  for  reasons  of  convenience 
rather  than  of  inclination,  she  should  pay  for  her  stu- 
pidity. Pay!  The  word  made  the  blood  mount  to 
Menko' s  face.  If  he  had  not  been  rich,  as  he  was,  he 
would  have  hewn  stone  to  gain  his  daily  bread  rather 
than  touch  a  penny  of  her  money.  He  shook  off  the 
yoke  the  obstinate  daughter  of  the  Bohemian  gentle- 
man would  have  imposed  upon  him,  and  departed, 
brusquely  breaking  a  union  in  which  both  husband  and 
wife  so  terribly  perceived  their  error. 

[100] 


PRINCE  ZILAI 

Marsa  might  have  known  of  all  this  if  she  had,  for  a 
moment,  doubted  Menko's  word.  But  how  was  she  to 
suspect  that  the  young  Count  was  capable  of  a  lie  or  of 
concealing  such  a  secret?  Besides,  she  knew  hardly 
any  one  at  Pau,  as  her  physicians  had  forbidden  her 
any  excitement;  at  the  foot  of  the  Pyrenees,  she  lived, 
as  at  Maisons-Lafitte,  an  almost  solitary  life;  and  Mi- 
chel Menko  had  been  during  that  winter,  which  he  now 
recalled  to  Marsa,  speaking  of  it  as  of  a  lost  Eden,  her 
sole  companion,  the  only  guest  of  the  house  she  inhab- 
ited with  Vogotzine  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  castle. 

Poor  Marsa,  enthusiastic,  inexperienced,  her  heart 
enamored  with  chivalrous  audacity,  intrepid  courage, 
all  the  many  virtues  which  were  those  of  Hungary  her- 
self; Marsa,  her  mind  imbued  from  her  infancy  with  the 
almost  fantastic  recitals  of  the  war  of  independence, 
and  later,  with  her  readings  and  reflections;  Marsa, 
full  of  the  stories  of  the  heroic  past—  must  necessarily 
have  been  the  dupe  of  the  first  being  who,  coming  into 
her  life,  was  the  personal  representative  of  the  bravery 
and  charm  of  her  race.  So,  when  she  encountered  one 
day  Michel  Menko,  she  was  invincibly  attracted  toward 
him  by  something  proud,  brave,  and  chivalrous,  which 
was  characteristic  of  the  manly  beauty  of  the  young 
Hungarian.  She  was  then  twenty,  very  ignorant  of 
life,  her  great  Oriental  eyes  seeing  nothing  of  stern 
reality;  but,  with  all  her  gentleness,  there  was  a  species 
of  Muscovite  firmness  which  was  betrayed  in  the  con- 
tour of  her  red  lips.  It  was  in  vain  that  sorrow  had  early 
made  her  a  woman;  Marsa  remained  ignorant  of  the 
world,  without  any  other  guide  than  Vogotzine;  suffer- 

[101] 


ing  and  languid,  she  was  fatally  at  the  mercy  of  the  first 
lie  which  should  caress  her  ear  and  stir  her  heart. 
From  the  first,  therefore,  she  had  loved  Michel;  she 
had,  as  she  herself  said,  believed  that  she  loved  him 
with  a  love  which  would  never  end,  a  very  ingenuous 
love,  having  neither  the  silliness  of  a  girl  who  has  just 
left  the  convent,  nor  the  knowledge  of  a  Parisienne 
whom  the  theatre  and  the  newspapers  have  instructed 
in  all  things.  Michel,  then,  could  give  to  this  virgin 
and  pliable  mind  whatever  bent  he  chose;  and  Marsa, 
pure  as  the  snow  and  brave  as  her  own  favorite  heroes, 
became  his  without  resistance,  being  incapable  of  di- 
vining a  treachery  or  fearing  a  lie.  Michel  Menko, 
moreover,  loved  her  madly;  and  he  thought  only  of 
winning  and  keeping  the  love  of  this  incomparable 
maiden,  exquisite  in  her  combined  gentleness  and 
pride.  The  folly  of  love  mounted  to  his  brain  like  in- 
toxication, and  communicated  itself  to  the  poor  girl 
who  believed  in  him  as  if  he  were  the  living  faith ;  and, 
in  the  madness  of  his  passion,  Michel,  without  being  a 
coward,  committed  a  cowardly  action. 

No:  a  coward  he  certainly  was  not.  He  was  one  of 
those  nervous  natures,  as  prompt  to  hope  as  to  despair, 
going  to  all  extremes,  at  times  foolishly  gay,  and  at 
others  as  grave  and  melancholy  as  Hamlet.  There  were 
days  when  Menko  did  not  value  his  life  at  a  penny,  and 
when  he  asked  himself  seriously  if  suicide  were  not  the 
simplest  means  to  reach  the  end;  and  again,  at  the 
least  ray  of  sunshine,  he  became  sanguine  and  hopeful 
to  excess.  Of  undoubted  courage,  he  would  have  faced 
the  muzzle  of  a  loaded  cannon  out  of  mere  bravado,  at 

[102] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

the  same  time  wondering,  with  a  sarcastic  smile  upon 
his  lips,  Cui  bono  ? 

He  sometimes  called  heroism  a  trick;  and  yet,  in 
everyday  life,  he  had  not  much  regard  for  tricksters. 
Excessively  fond  of  movement,  activity,  and  excitement, 
he  yet  counted  among  his  happiest  days  those  spent 
in  long  meditations  and  inactive  dreams.  He  was  a 
strange  combination  of  faults  and  good  qualities,  with- 
out egregious  vices,  but  all  his  virtues  capable  of  being 
annihilated  by  passion,  anger,  jealousy,  or  grief.  With 
such  a  nature,  everything  was  possible:  the  sublimity 
of  devotion,  or  a  fall  into  the  lowest  infamy.  He  often 
said,  in  self -analysis :  "I  am  afraid  of  myself."  In 
short,  his  strength  was  like  a  house  built  upon  sand; 
all,  in  a  day,  might  crumble. 

"If  I  had  to  choose  the  man  I  should  prefer  to  be," 
he  said  once,  "I  would  be  Prince  Andras  Zilah,  because 
he  knows  neither  my  useless  discouragements,  apropos 
of  everything  and  nothing,  nor  my  childish  delights,  nor 
my  hesitations,  nor  my  confidence,  which  at  times  ap- 
proaches folly  as  my  misanthropy  approaches  injus- 
tice; and  because,  in  my  opinion,  the  supreme  virtue 
in  a  man  is  firmness." 

The  Zilahs  were  connected  by  blood  with  the  Menkos, 
and  Prince  Andras  was  very  fond  of  this  young  man, 
who  promised  to  Hungary  one  of  those  diplomats  ca- 
pable of  wielding  at  once  the  pen  and  the  sword,  and 
who  in  case  of  war,  before  drawing  up  a  protocol,  would 
have  dictated  its  terms,  sabre  in  hand.  Michel  indeed 
stood  high  with  his  chief  in  the  embassy,  and  he  was 
very  much  sought  after  in  society.  Before  the  day  he 

[103] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

met  Marsa,  he  had,  to  tell  the  truth,  only  experienced 
the  most  trivial  love-affairs. 

He  did  not  speak  of  his  wife  at  Pau  any  more  than 
he  did  on  the  boulevards.  She  lived  far  away,  in  the 
old  city  of  Prague,  and  troubled  Michel  no  more  than 
if  she  had  never  existed.  Perhaps  he  had  forgotten, 
really  forgotten,  with  that  faculty  of  forgetfulness  which 
belongs  to  the  imaginative,  that  he  was  married,  when 
he  encountered  Marsa,  the  candid,  pure-hearted  girl, 
who  did  not  reflect  nor  calculate,  but  simply  believed 
that  she  had  met  a  man  of  honor. 

So,  what  sudden  revolt,  humiliation,  and  hatred  did 
the  poor  child  feel  when  she  learned  that  the  man  in 
whom  she  had  believed  as  in  a  god  had  deceived  her, 
lied  to  her!  He  was  married.  He  had  treated  her  as 
the  lowest  of  women ;  perhaps  he  had  never  even  loved 
her!  The  very  thought  made  her  long  to  kill  herself,  or 
him,  or  both.  She,  unhappy,  miserable  woman,  was 
ruined,  ruined  forever! 

She  had  certainly  never  stopped  to  think  where  the 
love  she  had  for  Michel  would  lead  her.  She  thought 
of  nothing  except  that  Michel  was  hers,  and  she  was 
his,  and  she  believed  that  their  love  would  last  forever. 
She  did  not  think  that  she  had  long  to  live,  and  her  ex- 
istence seemed  to  her  only  a  breath  which  any  moment 
might  cease.  Why  had  she  not  died  before  she  knew 
that  Menko  had  lied  ? 

All  deception  seemed  hideous  to  Marsa  Laszlo,  and 
this  hideousness  she  had  discovered  in  the  man  to 
whom  she  had  given  herself,  believing  in  the  eternity 
as  well  as  in  the  loyalty  of  his  love. 

[104] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

It  was  at  a  ball,  at  the  English  embassy,  after  her 
return  from  Pau,  that,  while  smiling  and  happy,  she 
overheard  between  two  Viennese,  strangers  to  her,  this 
short  dialogue,  every  word  of  which  was  like  a  knife  in 
her  heart:  "What  a  charming  fellow  that  Menko  is!" 
"Yes;  is  his  wife  ugly  or  a  humpback ?  or  is  he  jealous 
as  Othello?  She  is  never  seen."  "His  wife!  Is  he 
married?"  "Yes:  he  married  a  Blavka,  the  daughter 
of  Angel  Blavka,  of  Prague.  Didn't  you  know  it?" 

Married ! 

Marsa  felt  her  head  reel,  and  the  sudden  glance  she 
cast  at  the  speakers  silenced,  almost  terrified  them.  Half 
insane,  she  reached  home,  she  never  knew  how.  The 
next  day  Michel  Menko  presented  himself  at  her  apart- 
ments in  the  hotel  where  she  was  living;  she  ordered 
him  out  of  her  presence,  not  allowing  him  to  offer  any 
excuse  or  explanation. 

"You  are  married,  and  you  are  a  coward!" 

He  threw  himself  at  her  knees,  and  implored  her  to 
listen  to  him. 

"Go!  Go!" 

"But  our  love,  Marsa?  For  I  love  you,  and  you 
love  me." 

"I  hate  and  scorn  you.  My  love  is  dead.  You  have 
killed  it.  All  is  over.  Go!  And  let  me  never  know 
that  there  exists  a  Michel  Menko  in  the  world !  Never ! 
Never!  Never!" 

He  felt  his  own  cowardice  and  shame,  and  he  disap- 
peared, not  daring  again  to  see  the  woman  whose  love 
haunted  him,  and  who  shut  herself  away  from  the  world 
more  obstinately  than  ever.  She  left  Paris,  and  in  the 

1 '°5  J 


JULES  CLARETIE 

solitude  of  Maisons-Lafitte  lived  the  life  of  a  recluse, 
while  Michel  tried  in  vain  to  forget  the  bitterness  of  his 
loss.  The  Tzigana  hoped  that  she  was  going  to  die, 
and  bear  away  with  her  forever  the  secret  of  her  be- 
trayal. But  no;  science  had  been  mistaken;  the  poor 
girl  was  destined  to  live.  In  spite  of  her  sorrow  and 
anguish,  her  beauty  blossomed  in  the  shade,  and  she 
seemed  each  day  to  grow  more  lovely,  wrhile  her  heart 
became  more  sad,  and  her  despair  more  poignant. 

Then  death,  which  would  not  take  Marsa,  came  to 
another,  and  gave  Menko  an  opportunity  to  repair  and 
efface  all.  He  learned  that  his  wife  had  died  suddenly 
at  Prague,  of  a  malady  of  the  heart.  This  death,  which 
freed  him,  produced  a  strange  effect  upon  him,  not  un- 
mingled  with  remorse.  Poor  woman!  She  had  wor- 
thily borne  his  name,  after  all.  Unintelligent,  cold,  and 
wrapped  up  in  her  money,  she  had  never  understood 
him;  but,  perhaps,  if  he  had  been  more  patient,  things 
might  have  gone  better  between  them. 

But  no;  Marsa  was  his  one,  his  never-to-be-forgotten 
love.  As  soon  as  he  heard  of  his  freedom,  he  wrote  her 
a  letter,  telling  her  that  he  was  able  now  to  dispose  of 
his  future  as  he  would,  imploring  her  to  pardon  him, 
offering  her  not  his  love,  since  she  repelled  it,  but  his 
name,  which  was  her  right — a  debt  of  honor  which  he 
wished  her  to  acquit  with  the  devotion  of  his  life.  Marsa 
answered  simply  with  these  words:  "I  will  never  bear 
the  name  of  a  man  I  despise." 

The  wound  made  in  her  heart  by  Menko's  lie  was 
incurable;  the  Tzigana  would  never  forgive.  He  tried 
to  see  her  again,  confident  that,  if  he  should  be  face  to 

[«*! 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

face  with  her,  he  could  find  words  to  awaken  the  past 
and  make  it  live  again;  but  she  obstinately  refused  to 
see  him,  and,  as  she  did  not  go  into  society,  he  never 
met  her.  Then  he  cast  himself,  with  a  sort  of  frenzy, 
into  the  dissipation  of  Paris,  trying  to  forget,  to  forget 
at  any  cost:  failing  in  this,  he  resigned  his  position  at 
the  embassy,  and  went  away  to  seek  adventure,  going  to 
fight  in  the  Balkans  against  the  Russians,  only  to  return 
weary  and  bored  as  he  had  departed,  always  invinci- 
bly and  eternally  haunted  by  the  image  of  Marsa,  an 
image  sad  as  a  lost  love,  and  grave  as  remorse. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

[MY  LETTERS  OR  MYSELF  " 

T  was  that  past,  that  terrible  past,  which 
Michel  Menko  had  dared  to  come  and 
speak  of  to  the  Tzigana.  At  first, 
she  had  grown  crimson  with  anger,  as 
if  at  an  insult;  now,  by  a  sudden  oppo- 
site sentiment,  as  she  listened  to  him 
recalling  those  days,  she  felt  an  im- 
pression of  deadly  pain  as  if  an  old 
wound  had  been  reopened.  Was  it  true  that  all  this 
had  ever  existed  ?  Was  it  possible,  even  ? 

The  man  who  had  been  her  lover  was  speaking  to 
her;  he  was  speaking  to  her  of  his  love;  and,  if  the  ter- 
rible agony  of  memory  had  not  burned  in  her  heart,  she 
would  have  wondered  whether  this  man  before  her,  this 
sort  of  stranger,  had  ever  even  touched  her  hand. 

She  waited,  with  the  idle  curiosity  of  a  spectator  who 
had  no  share  in  the  drama,  for  the  end  of  Menko' s 
odious  argument:  "I  lied  because  I  loved  you!" 

He  returned  again  and  again,  in  the  belief  that  women 
easily  forgive  the  ill-doing  of  which  they  are  the  cause, 
to  that  specious  plea,  and  Marsa  asked  herself,  in  amaze- 
ment, what  aberration  had  possession  of  this  man  that 
he  should  even  pretend  to  excuse  his  infamy  thus. 
"And  is  that,"  she  said  at  last,  "all  that  you  have  to 
[io81 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

say  to  me ?  According  to  you,  the  thief  has  only  to  cry: 
'What  could  I  do?  I  loved  that  money,  and  so  I  stole 
it.'  Ah,"  rising  abruptly,  "this  interview  has  lasted 
too  long!  Good-evening!" 

She  walked  steadily  toward  the  door;  but  Michel, 
hastening  round  the  other  side  of  the  table,  barred  her 
exit,  speaking  in  a  suppliant  tone,  in  which,  however, 
there  was  a  hidden  threat: 

"Marsa!  Marsa,  I  implore  you,  do  not  marry  Prince 
Andras!  Do  not  marry  him  if  you  do  not  wish  some 
horrible  tragedy  to  happen  to  you  and  me!" 

"Really?"  she  retorted.  "Do  I  understand  that  it  is 
you  who  now  threaten  to  kill  me?" 

"  I  do  not  threaten ;  I  entreat,  Marsa.  But  you  know 
all  that  there  is  in  me  at  times  of  madness  and  folly.  I 
am  almost  insane:  you  know  it  well.  Have  pity  upon 
me !  I  love  you  as  no  woman  was  ever  loved  before ;  I 
live  only  in  you;  and,  if  you  should  give  yourself  to  an- 
other  " 

"Ah!"  she  said,  interrupting  him  with  a  haughty 
gesture,  "you  speak  to  me  as  if  you  had  a  right  to  dic- 
tate my  actions.  I  have  given  you  my  forgetfulness 
after  giving  you  my  love.  That  is  enough,  I  think. 
Leave  me!" 

"Marsa!" 

"I  have  hoped  for  a  long  time  that  I  was  forever  de- 
livered from  your  presence.  I  commanded  you  to  dis- 
appear. Why  have  you  returned?" 

"Because,  after  I  saw  you  one  evening  at  Baroness 
Dinati's  (do  you  remember?  you  spoke  to  the  Prince 
for  the  first  time  that  evening),  I  learned,  in  London,  of 

[109] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

this  marriage.  If  I  have  consented  to  live  away  from 
you  previously,  it  was  because,  although  you  were  no 
longer  mine,  you  at  least  were  no  one  else's;  but  I  will 
not — pardon  me,  I  can  not — endure  the  thought  that 
your  beauty,  your  grace,  will  be  another's.  Think  of 
the  self-restraint  I  have  placed  upon  myself!  Although 
living  in  Paris,  I  have  not  tried  to  see  you  again,  Marsa, 
since  you  drove  me  from  your  presence;  it  was  by 
chance  that  I  met  you  at  the  Baroness's;  but  now— 

"  It  is  another  woman  you  have  before  you.  A  woman 
who  ignores  that  she  has  listened  to  your  supplications, 
yielded  to  your  prayers.  It  is  a  woman  who  has  for- 
gotten you,  who  does  not  even  know  that  a  wretch  has 
abused  her  ignorance  and  her  confidence,  and  who 
loves — who  loves  as  one  loves  for  the  first  time,  with  a 
pure  and  holy  devotion,  the  man  whose  name  she  is 
to  bear." 

"That  man  I  respect  as  honor  itself.  Had  it  been 
another,  I  should  already  have  struck  him  in  the  face. 
But  you  who  accuse  me  of  having  lied,  are  you  going  to 
lie  to  him,  to  him?" 

Marsa  became  livid,  and  her  eyes,  hollow  as  those  of 
a  person  sick  to  death,  flamed  in  the  black  circles  which 
surrounded  them. 

"I  have  no  answer  to  make  to  one  who  has  no  right 
to  question  me,"  she  said.  "But,  should  I  have  to  pay 
with  my  life  for  the  moment  of  happiness  I  should  feel 
in  placing  my  hand  in  the  hand  of  a  hero,  I  would  grasp 
that  moment!" 

"Then,"  cried  Menko,  "you  wish  to  push  me  to  ex- 
tremities! And  yet  I  have  told  you  there  are  certaiq 

[no] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

hours  of  feverish  insanity  in  which  I  am  capable  of 
committing  a  crime." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  replied  the  young  girl,  coldly. 
"But,  in  fact,  you  have  already  done  that.  There  is  no 
crime  lower  than  that  of  treachery." 

"There  is  one  more  terrible,"  retorted  Michel  Menko. 
"  I  have  told  you  that  I  loved  you.  I  love  you  a  hundred 
times  more  now  than  ever  before.  Jealousy,  anger, 
whatever  sentiment  you  choose  to  call  it,  makes  my 
blood  like  fire  in  my  veins !  I  see  you  again  as  you  were. 
I  feel  your  kisses  on  my  lips.  I  love  you  madly,  pas- 
sionately! Do  you  understand,  Marsa?  Do  you  un- 
derstand?" and  he  approached  with  outstretched 
hands  the  Tzigana,  whose  frame  was  shaken  with  in- 
dignant anger.  "Do  you  understand ?  I  love  you  still. 
I  was  your  lover,  and  I  will,  I  will  be  so  again." 

"Ah,  miserable  coward!"  cried  the  Tzigana,  with  a 
rapid  glance  toward  the  daggers,  before  which  stood 
Menko,  preventing  her  from  advancing,  and  regard- 
ing her  with  eyes  which  burned  with  reckless  passion, 
wounded  self-love,  and  torturing  jealousy.  "Yes,  cow- 
ard!" she  repeated,  "coward,  coward  to  dare  to  taunt 
me  with  an  infamous  past  and  speak  of  a  still  more  in- 
famous future!" 

"I  love  you!"  exclaimed  Menko  again. 

"Go!"  she  cried,  crushing  him  with  look  and  gest- 
ure. "Go!  I  order  you  out  of  my  presence,  lackey! 
Go!" 

All  the  spirit  of  the  daughters  of  the  puszta,  the  vio- 
lent pride  of  her  Hungarian  blood,  flashed  from  her 
eyes;  and  Menko,  fascinated,  gazed  at  her  as  if  turned 


JULES  CLARETIE 

to  stone,  as  she  stood  there  magnificent  in  her  anger, 
superb  in  her  contempt. 

"Yes,  I  will  go  to-day,"  he  said  at  last,  "but  to-mor- 
row night  I  shall  come  again,  Marsa.  As  my  dearest 
treasure,  I  have  preserved  the  key  of  that  gate  I  opened 
once  to  meet  you  who  were  waiting  for  me  in  the  shadow 
of  the  trees.  Have  you  forgotten  that,  also?  You  say 
you  have  forgotten  all." 

And  as  he  spoke,  she  saw  again  the  long  alley  behind 
the  villa,  ending  in  a  small  gate  which,  one  evening  after 
the  return  from  Pau,  Michel  opened,  and  came,  as  he 
said,  to  meet  her  waiting  for  him.  It  was  true.  Yes,  it 
was  true.  Menko  did  not  lie  this  time !  She  had  waited 
for  him  there,  two  years  before,  unhappy  girl  that  she 
was!  All  that  hideous  love  she  had  believed  lay  buried 
in  Pau  as  in  a  tomb. 

"Listen,  Marsa,"  continued  Menko,  suddenly  recov- 
ering, by  a  strong  effort  of  the  will,  his  coolness,  "I 
must  see  you  once  again,  have  one  more  opportunity  to 
plead  my  cause.  The  letters  you  wrote  to  me,  those 
dear  letters  which  I  have  covered  with  my  kisses  and 
blistered  with  my  tears,  those  letters  which  I  have  kept 
despite  your  prayers  and  your  commands,  those  letters 
which  have  been  my  only  consolation — I  will  bring 
them  to  you  to-morrow  night.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

Her  great  eyes  fixed,  and  her  lips  trembling  horribly, 
Marsa  made  no  reply. 

"Do  you  understand  me,  Marsa?"  he  repeated,  im- 
ploring and  threatening  at  once. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured  at  last. 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

She  paused  a  moment;  then  a  broken,  feverish  laugh 
burst  from  her  lips,  and  she  continued,  with  stinging 
irony : 

"Either  my  letters  or  myself!  It  is  a  bargain  pure 
and  simple!  Such  a  proposition  has  been  made  once 
before — it  is  historical — you  probably  remember  it. 
In  that  case,  the  woman  killed  herself.  I  shall  act  oth- 
erwise, believe  me!" 

There  was  in  her  icy  tones  a  threat,  which  gave  pleas- 
ure to  Michel  Menko.  He  vaguely  divined  a  danger. 
"You  mean?"  he  asked. 

"I  mean,  you  must  never  again  appear  before  me. 
You  must  go  to  London,  to  America;  I  don't  care 
where.  You  must  be  dead  to  the  one  you  have  cowardly 
betrayed.  You  must  burn  or  keep  those  letters,  it  little 
matters  to  me  which;  but  you  must  still  be  honorable 
enough  not  to  use  them  as  a  weapon  against  me.  This 
interview,  which  wearies  more  than  it  angers  me, 
must  be  the  last.  You  must  leave  me  to  my  sorrows  or 
my  joys,  without  imagining  that  you  could  ever  have 
anything  in  common  with  a  woman  who  despises  you. 
You  have  crossed  the  threshold  of  this  house  for  the 
last  time.  Or,  if  not — Ah!  if  not — I  swear  to  you  that 
I  have  energy  enough  and  resolution  enough  to  defend 
myself  alone,  and  alone  to  punish  you!  In  your  turn, 
you  understand  me,  I  imagine?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Michel.  "But  you  are  too  impru- 
dent, Marsa.  I  am  not  a  man  to  make  recoil  by  speak- 
ing of  danger.  Through  the  gate,  or  over  the  wall  if  the 
gate  is  barricaded,  I  shall  come  to  you  again,  and  you 
will  have  to  listen  to  me." 

8  11 


JULES  CLARETIE 

The  lip  of  the  Tzigana  curled  disdainfully. 

"I  shall  not  even  change  the  lock  of  that  gate,  and 
besides,  the  large  gate  of  the  garden  remains  open  these 
summer  nights.  You  see  that  you  have  only  to  come. 
But  I  warn  you  neither  to  unlock  the  one  nor  to  pass 
through  the  other.  It  is  not  I  whom  you  will  find  at 
the  rendezvous." 

"Still,  I  am  sure  that  it  would  be  you,  Marsa,  if  I 
should  tell  you  that  to-morrow  evening  I  shall  be  under 
the  window  of  the  pavilion  at  the  end  of  the  garden, 
and  that  you  must  meet  me  there  to  receive  from  my 
hand  your  letters,  all  your  letters,  which  I  shall  bring 
you." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  am  certain  of  it." 

"Certain?    Why?" 

"Because  you  will  reflect." 

"I  have  had  time  to  reflect.  Give  me  another 
reason." 

"Another  reason  is  that  you  can  not  afford  to  leave 
such  proofs  in  my  hands.  I  assure  you  that  it  would  be 
folly  to  make  of  a  man  like  me,  who  would  willingly  die 
for  you,  an  open  and  implacable  enemy." 

"I  understand.  A  man  like  you  would  die  willingly 
for  a  woman,  but  he  insults  and  threatens  her,  like 
the  vilest  of  men,  with  a  punishment  more  cruel  than 
death  itself.  Well!  it  matters  little  to  me.  I  shall  not 
be  in  the  pavilion  where  you  have  spoken  to  me  of  your 
love,  and  I  will  have  it  torn  down  and  the  debris  of  it 
burned  within  three  days.  I  shall  not  await  you.  I 
shall  never  see  you  again.  I  do  not  fear  you.  And  I 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

leave  you  the  right  of  doing  with  those  letters  what  you 
please!" 

Then,  surveying  him  from  head  to  foot,  as  if  to  meas- 
ure the  degree  of  audacity  to  which  he  could  attain, 
"Adieu!"  she  said. 

"Au  revoir!"  he  rejoined  coldly,  giving  to  the  saluta- 
tion an  emphasis  full  of  hidden  meaning. 

The  Tzigana  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  pulled  a 
silken  bell-cord. 

A  servant  appeared. 

"Show  this  gentleman  out,"  she  said,  very  quietly. 


[US] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"HAVE  i  THE  RIGHT  TO  LIE?" 

;HEN  the  Tzigana's  romance,  in  which 
she  had  put  all  her  faith  and  her  belief, 
had  ended,  like  a  bad  dream,  she  said 
to  herself:  "My  life  is  over!" 

What  remained  to  her?    Expiation? 
Forgetf  ulness  ? 

She  thought  of  the  cloister  and  the 
life  of  prayer  of  those  blue  sisters  she 
saw  under  the  trees  of  Maisons-Lafitte.  She  lived  in 
the  solitude  of  her  villa,  remaining  there  during  the 
winter  in  a  melancholy  tete-a-tete  with  old  Vogotzine, 
who  was  always  more  or  less  under  the  effect  of  liquor. 
Then,  as  death  would  not  take  her,  she  gradually  began 
to  go  into  Parisian  society,  slowly  forgetting  the  past, 
and  the  folly  which  she  had  taken  for  love  little  by 
little  faded  mistily  away.  It  was  like  a  recovery  from 
an  illness,  or  the  disappearance  of  a  nightmare  in  the 
dawn  of  morning.  Now,  Marsa  Laszlo,  who,  two  years 
before,  had  longed  for  annihilation  and  death,  occa- 
sionally thought  the  little  Baroness  Dinati  right  when 
she  said,  in  her  laughing  voice:  "What  are  you  think- 
ing of,  my  dear  child  ?  Is  it  well  for  a  girl  of  your  age 
to  bury  herself  voluntarily  and  avoid  society?"  She 
was  then  twenty-four:  in  three  or  four  years  she  had 

[116] 


aged  mentally  ten;  but  her  beautiful  oval  face  had  re- 
mained unchanged,  with  the  purity  of  outline  of  a 
Byzantine  Madonna. 

Then — life  has  its  awakenings — she  met  Prince  An- 
dras :  all  her  admirations  as  a  girl,  her  worship  of  patri- 
otism and  heroism,  flamed  forth  anew;  her  heart, 
which  she  had  thought  dead,  throbbed,  as  it  had  never 
throbbed  before,  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  of  this  man, 
truly  loyal,  strong  and  gentle,  and  who  was  (she  knew 
it  well,  the  unhappy  girl !)  the  being  for  whom  she  was 
created,  the  ideal  of  her  dreams.  She  loved  him  si- 
lently, but  with  a  deep  and  eternal  passion;  she  loved 
him  without  saying  to  herself  that  she  no  longer  had 
any  right  to  love.  Did  she  even  think  of  her  past? 
Does  one  longer  think  of  the  storm  when  the  wind  has 
driven  off  the  heavy,  tear-laden  clouds,  and  the  thun- 
der has  died  away  in  the  distance?  It  seemed  to  her 
now  that  she  had  never  had  but  one  name  in  her  heart, 
and  upon  her  lips — Zilah. 

And  then  this  man,  this  hero,  her  hero,  asked  her 
hand,  and  said  to  her,  "I  love  you." 

Andras  loved  her!  With  what  a  terrible  contraction 
of  the  heart  did  she  put  to  herself  the  formidable  ques- 
tion :  "  Have  I  the  right  to  lie  ?  Shall  I  have  the  courage 
to  confess?" 

She  held  in  her  grasp  the  most  perfect  happiness 
a  woman  could  hope  for,  the  dream  of  her  whole  life; 
and,  because  a  worthless  scoundrel  had  deceived  her, 
because  there  were,  in  her  past,  hours  which  she  re- 
membered only  to  curse,  effaced  hours,  hours  which  ap- 
peared to  her  now  never  to  have  existed,  was  she  obliged 

["7] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

to  ruin  her  life,  to  break  her  heart,  and,  herself  the  vic- 
tim, to  pay  for  the  lie  uttered  by  a  coward?  Was  it 
right  ?  Was  it  just  ?  Was  she  to  be  forever  bound  to 
that  past,  like  a  corpse  to  its  grave?  What!  She  had 
no  longer  the  right  to  love  ?  no  longer  the  right  to  live  ? 

She  adored  Andras;  she  would  have  given  her  life 
for  him.  And  he  also  loved  her;  she  was  the  first 
woman  who  had  ever  touched  his  heart.  He  had  evi- 
dently felt  himself  isolated,  with  his  old  chivalrous 
ideas,  in  a  world  devoted  to  the  worship  of  low  things, 
tangible  successes,  and  profitable  realities.  He  was,  so 
to  speak,  a  living  anachronism  in  the  midst  of  a  society 
which  had  faith  in  nothing  except  victorious  brutalities, 
and  which  marched  on,  crushing,  beneath  its  iron-shod 
heels,  the  hopes  and  visions  of  the  enthusiastic.  He  re- 
called those  evenings  after  a  battle  when,  in  the  woods 
reddened  by  the  setting  sun,  his  father  and  Varhely 
said  to  him :  "Let  us  remain  to  the  last,  and  protect  the 
retreat!"  And  it  seemed  to  him  that,  amid  the  bestiali- 
ties of  the  moment  and  the  vulgarities  of  the  century,  he 
still  protected  the  retreat  of  misunderstood  virtues  and 
generous  enthusiasms;  and  it  pleased  him  to  be  the 
rear  guard  of  chivalry  in  defeat. 

He  shut  himself  up  obstinately  in  his  isolation,  like 
Marsa  in  her  solitude ;  and  he  did  not  consider  himself 
ridiculously  absurd  or  foolishly  romantic,  when  he  re- 
membered that  his  countrymen,  the  Hungarians,  were 
the  only  people,  perhaps,  who,  in  the  abasement  of  all 
Europe  before  the  brutality  of  triumph  and  omnipo- 
tent pessimism,  had  preserved  their  traditions  of  ideal- 
ism, chivalry,  and  faith  in  the  old  honor;  the  Hun- 

[118] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

garian  nationality  was  also  the  only  one  which  had 
conquered  its  conquerors  by  its  virtues,  its  persistence 
in  its  hopes,  its  courage,  its  contempt  of  all  baseness,  its 
extraordinary  heroism,  and  had  finally  imposed  its  law 
upon  Austria,  bearing  away  the  old  empire  as  on  the 
croup  of  its  horse  toward  the  vast  plains  of  liberty.  The 
ideal  would,  therefore,  have  its  moments  of  victory:  an 
entire  people  proved  it  in  history. 

"Let  this  world  boast,"  said  Andras,  "of  the  delights 
of  its  villainy,  and  grovel  in  all  that  is  low  and  base. 
Life  is  not  worth  living  unless  the  air  one  breathes  is 
pure  and  free!  Man  is  not  the  brother  of  swine!" 

And  these  same  ideas,  this  same  faith,  this  same 
dreamy  nature  and  longing  for  all  that  is  generous  and 
brave,  he  suddenly  found  again  in  the  heart  of  Marsa. 
She  represented  to  him  a  new  and  happy  existence. 
Yes,  he  thought,  she  would  render  him  happy;  she 
would  understand  him,  aid  him,  surround  him  with  the 
fondest  love  that  man  could  desire.  And  she,  also, 
thinking  of  him,  felt  herself  capable  of  any  sacrifice. 
Who  could  tell  ?  Perhaps  the  day  would  come  when  it 
would  be  necessary  to  fight  again;  then  she  would  fol- 
low him,  and  interpose  her  breast  between  him  and  the 
balls.  What  happiness  to  die  in  saving  him !  But,  no, 
no !  To  live  loving  him,  making  him  happy,  was  her 
duty  now;  and  was  it  necessary  to  renounce  this  de- 
light because  hated  kisses  had  once  soiled  her  lips? 
No,  she  could  not!  And  yet — and  yet,  strict  honor 
whispered  to  Marsa,  that  she  should  say  No  to  the 
Prince;  she  had  no  right  to  his  love. 

But,  if  she  should  reject  Andras,  he  would  die — 


JULES  CLARETIE 

Varhely  had  said  it.  She  would  then  slay  two  beings, 
Andras  and  herself,  with  a  single  word.  She!  She  did 
not  count!  But  he!  And  yet  she  must  speak.  But  why 
speak?  Was  it  really  true  that  she  had  ever  loved  an- 
other ?  Who  was  it  ?  The  one  whom  she  worshipped 
with  all  her  heart,  with  all  the  fibres  of  her  being,  was 
Andras !  Oh,  to  be  free  to  love  him !  Marsa's  sole  hope 
and  thought  were  now  to  win,  some  day,  forgiveness  for 
having  said  nothing  by  the  most  absolute  devotion  that 
man  had  ever  encountered.  Thinking  continually  these 
same  thoughts,  always  putting  off  taking  a  decision 
till  the  morrow,  fearing  to  break  both  his  heart  and 
hers,  the  Tzigana  let  the  time  slip  by  until  the  day  came 
when  the  fete  in  celebration  of  her  betrothal  was  to  take 
place.  And  on  that  very  day  Michel  Menko  appeared 
before  her,  not  abashed,  but  threatening.  Her  dream 
of  happiness  ended  in  this  reality — Menko  saying: 
"You  have  been  mine;  you  shall  be  mine  again,  or  you 
are  lost!" 

Lost!    And  how? 

With  cold  resolution,  Marsa  Laszlo  asked  herself  this 
question,  terrible  as  a  question  of  life  or  death: 

"What  would  the  Prince  do,  if,  after  I  became  his 
wife,  he  should  learn  the  truth?" 

"What  would  he  do?  He  would  kill  me,"  thought 
the  Tzigana.  "He  would  kill  me.  So  much  the 
better!"  It  was  a  sort  of  a  bargain  which  she  proposed 
to  herself,  and  which  her  overwhelming  love  dictated. 

"To  be  his  wife,  and  with  my  life  to  pay  for  that  mo- 
ment of  happiness!  If  I  should  speak  now,  he  would 
fly  from  me,  I  should  never  see  him  again — and  I  love 

[120] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

him.  Well,  I  sacrifice  what  remains  to  me  of  existence 
to  be  happy  for  one  short  hour!"  She  grew  to  think 
that  she  had  a  right  thus  to  give  her  life  for  her  love,  to 
belong  to  Andras,  to  be  the  wife  of  that  hero  if  only  for 
a  day,  and  to  die  then,  to  die  saying  to  him:  "I  was  un- 
worthy of  you,  but  I  loved  you;  here,  strike!"  Or 
rather  to  say  nothing,  to  be  loved,  to  take  opium  or  digi- 
talis, and  to  fall  asleep  with  this  last  supremely  happy 
thought:  "I  am  his  wife,  and  he  loves  me!"  What 
power  in  the  world  could  prevent  her  from  realizing  her 
dream?  Would  she  resemble  Michel  in  lying  thus? 
No ;  since  she  would  immediately  sacrifice  herself  with- 
out hesitation,  with  joy,  for  the  honor  of  her  hus- 
band. 

"Yes,  my  life  against  his  love.  I  shall  be  his  wife 
and  die!"  ' 

She  did  not  think  that,  in  sacrificing  her  life,  she 
would  condemn  Zilah  to  death.  Or  rather,  with  one  of 
those  subterfuges  by  which  we  voluntarily  deceive  our- 
selves, she  thought:  "He  will  be  consoled  for  my  death, 
if  he  ever  learns  what  I  was."  But  why  should  he  ever 
learn  it?  She  would  take  care  to  die  so  that  it  should 
be  thought  an  accident. 

Marsa's  resolve  was  taken.  She  had  contracted  a 
debt,  and  she  would  pay  it  with  her  blood.  Michel  now 
mattered  little  to  her,  let  him  do  what  he  would.  The 
young  man's  threat:  "To-morrow  night!"  returned  to 
her  mind  without  affecting  her  in  the  least.  The  con- 
temptuous curl  of  her  lip  seemed  silently  to  brave  Michel 
Menko. 

In  all  this  there  was  a  different  manifestation  of  her 


JULES  CLARETIE 

double  nature:  in  her  love  for  Andras  and  her  longing 
to  become  his  wife,  the  blood  of  the  Tzigana,  her 
mother,  spoke;  Prince  Tchereteff,  the  Russian,  on  the 
other  hand,  revived  in  her  silent,  cold  bravado. 

She  lay  down  to  rest,  still  feverish  from  the  struggle, 
and  worn  out,  slept  till  morning,  to  awaken  calm,  lan- 
guid, but  almost  happy. 

She  passed  the  whole  of  the  following  day  in  the  gar- 
den, wondering  at  times  if  the  appearance  of  Menko 
and  his  to-morrow  were  not  a  dream,  a  nightmare.  To- 
morrow? That  was  to-day. 

"Yes,  yes,  he  will  come!  He  is  quite  capable  of  com- 
ing," she  murmured. 

She  despised  him  enough  to  believe  that  he  would 
dare,  this  time,  to  keep  his  word. 

Lying  back  in  a  low  wicker  chair,  beneath  a  large 
oak,  whose  trunk  was  wreathed  with  ivy,  she  read  or 
thought  the  hours  away.  A  Russian  belt,  enamelled 
with  gold  and  silver,  held  together  her  trailing  white 
robes  of  India  muslin,  trimmed  with  Valenciennes,  and 
a  narrow  scarlet  ribbon  encircled  her  throat  like  a  line 
of  blood.  The  sunlight,  filtering  through  the  leaves, 
flickered  upon  her  dress  and  clear,  dark  cheeks,  while, 
near  by,  a  bush  of  yellow  roses  flung  its  fragrance  upon 
the  air.  The  only  sound  in  the  garden  was  the  gentle 
rustle  of  the  trees,  which  recalled  to  her  the  distant 
murmur  of  the  sea.  Gradually  she  entirely  forgot 
Michel,  and  thought  only  of  the  happy  moments  of  the 
previous  day,  of  the  boat  floating  down  the  Seine  past  the 
silvery  willows  on  the  banks  of  the  sparkling  water,  of 
the  good  people  on  the  barge  calling  out  to  her,  "Be 

[122] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

happy!  be  happy!"  and  the  little  children  throwing 
smiling  kisses  to  her. 

A  gentle  languor  enveloped  the  warm,  sunny  garden. 
Old  Sol  poured  his  golden  light  down  upon  the  emerald 
turf,  the  leafy  trees,  the  brilliant  flowerbeds  and  the 
white  walls  of  the  villa.  Under  the  green  arch  of  the 
trees,  where  luminous  insects,  white  and  flame-colored 
butterflies,  aimlessly  chased  one  another,  Mirsa  half 
slumbered  in  a  sort  of  voluptuous  oblivion,  a  happy 
calm,  in  that  species  of  nirvana  which  the  open  air  of 
summer  brings.  She  felt  herself  far  away  from  the  en- 
tire world  in  that  corner  of  verdure,  and  abandoned 
herself  to  childish  hopes  and  dreams,  in  profound  en- 
joyment of  the  beautiful  day. 

The  Baroness  Dinati  came  during  the  afternoon  to 
see  Marsa;  she  fluttered  out  into  the  garden,  dressed  in 
a  clinging  gown  of  some  light,  fluffy  material,  with  a  red 
umbrella  over  her  head ;  and  upon  her  tiny  feet,  of  all 
things  in  the  world,  ebony  sabots,  bearing  her  mono- 
gram in  silver  upon  the  instep.  It  was  a  short  visit, 
made  up  of  the  chatter  and  gossip  of  Paris.  Little 
Jacquemin's  article  upon  Prince  Zilah's  nautical  jete 
had  created  a  furore.  That  little  Jacquemin  was  a 
charming  fellow;  Marsa  knew  him.  No!  Really? 
What!  she  didn't  know  Jacquemin  of  UActualite? 
Oh !  but  she  must  invite  him  to  the  wedding,  he  would 
write  about  it,  he  wrote  about  everything;  he  was  very 
well  informed,  was  Jacquemin,  on  every  subject,  even 
on  the  fashions. 

"Look!  It  was  he  who  told  me  that  these  sabots 
were  to  be  worn,  The  miserable  things  nearly  made 


JULES  CLARETIE 

me  break  my  neck  when  I  entered  the  carriage;  but 
they  are  something  new.  They  attract  attention. 
Everybody  says,  What  are  they?  And  when  one  has 
pretty  feet,  not  too  large,  you  know,"  etc.,  etc. 

She  rattled  on,  moistening  her  pretty  red  lips  with  a 
lemonade,  and  nibbling  a  cake,  and  then  hastily  de- 
parted just  as  Prince  Andras's  carriage  stopped  before 
the  gate.  The  Baroness  waved  her  hand  to  him  with  a 
gay  smile,  crying  out : 

"I  will  not  take  even  a  minute  of  your  time.  You 
have  to-day  something  pleasanter  to  do  than  to  occupy 
yourself  with  poor,  insignificant  me!" 

Marsa  experienced  the  greatest  delight  in  seeing  An- 
dras,  and  listening  to  the  low,  tender  accents  of  his 
voice;  she  felt  herself  to  be  loved  and  protected.  She 
gave  herself  up  to  boundless  hopes — she,  who  had  be- 
fore her,  perhaps,  only  a  few  days  of  life.  She  felt  per- 
fectly happy  near  Andras;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
to-day  his  manner  was  tenderer,  the  tones  of  his  voice 
more  caressing,  than  usual. 

"I  was  right  to  believe  in  chimeras,"  he  said,  "since 
all  that  I  longed  for  at  twenty  years  is  realized  to-day. 
Very  often,  dear  Marsa,  when  I  used  to  feel  sad  and 
discouraged,  I  wondered  whether  my  life  lay  behind  me. 
But  I  was  longing  for  you,  that  was  all.  I  knew  in- 
stinctively that  there  existed  an  exquisite  woman,  born 
for  me,  my  wife — my  wife!  and  I  waited  for  you." 

He  took  her  hands,  and  gazed  upon  her  face  with  a 
look  of  infinite  tenderness. 

"And  suppose  that  you  had  not  found  me?"  she 
asked, 

[M4] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"I  should  have  continued  to  drag  out  a  weary  ex- 
istence. Ask  Varhely  what  I  have  told  him  of  my 
life." 

Marsa  felt  her  heart  sink  within  her;  but  she  forced 
herself  to  smile.  All  that  Varhely  had  said  to  her  re- 
turned to  her  mind.  Yes,  Zilah  had  staked  his  very 
existence  upon  her  love.  To  drag  aside  the  veil  from 
his  illusion  would  be  like  tearing  away  the  bandages 
from  a  wound.  Decidedly,  the  resolution  she  had  taken 
was  the  best  one — to  say  nothing,  but,  in  the  black  si- 
lence of  suicide,  which  would  be  at  once  a  deliverance 
and  a  punishment,  to  disappear,  leaving  to  Zilah  only 
a  memory. 

But  why  not  die  now?  Ah!  why?  why?  To  this 
eternal  question  Marsa  made  reply,  that,  for  deceiving 
him  by  becoming  his  wife,  she  would  pay  with  her  life. 
A  kiss,  then  death.  In  deciding  to  act  a  lie,  she  con- 
demned herself.  She  only  sought  to  give  to  her  death 
the  appearance  of  an  accident,  not  wishing  to  leave 
to  Andras  the  double  memory  of  a  treachery  and  a 
crime. 

She  listened  to  the  Prince  as  he  spoke  of  the  future, 
of  all  the  happiness  of  their  common  existence.  She 
listened  as  if  her  resolution  to  die  had  not  been  taken, 
and  as  if  Zilah  was  promising  her,  not  a  minute,  but  an 
eternity,  of  joy. 

General  Vogotzine  and  Marsa  accompanied  the 
Prince  to  the  station,  he  having  come  to  Maisons  by  the 
railway.  The  Tzigana's  Danish  hounds  went  with 
them,  bounding  about  Andras,  and  licking  his  hands 
as  he  caressed  them. 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"They  already  know  the  master,"  laughed  Vogotzine. 

"I  have  rarely  seen  such  gentle  animals,"  remarked 
the  Prince. 

" Gentle?    That  depends!"  said  Marsa. 

After  separating  from  the  Prince,  she  returned,  silent 
and  abstracted,  with  Vogotzine.  She  saw  Andras  depart 
with  a  mournful  sadness,  and  a  sudden  longing  to  have 
him  stay — to  protect  her,  to  defend  her,  to  be  there  if 
Michel  should  come. 

It  was  already  growing  dark  when  they  reached 
home.  Marsa  ate  but  little  at  dinner,  and  left  Vogot- 
zine alone  to  finish  his  wine. 

Later,  the  General  came,  as  usual,  to  bid  his  niece 
good-night.  He  found  Marsa  lying  upon  the  divan  in 
the  little  salon. 

"Don't  you  feel  well ?    What  is  the  matter ? " 

"Nothing." 

"I  feel  a  little  tired,  and  I  was  going  to  bed.  You 
don't  care  to  have  me  keep  you  company,  do  you,  my 
dear?" 

Sometimes  he  was  affectionate  to  her,  and  sometimes 
he  addressed  her  with  timid  respect;  but  Marsa  never 
appeared  to  notice  the  difference. 

"I  prefer  to  remain  alone,"  she  answered. 

The  General  shrugged  his  shoulders,  bent  over,  took 
Marsa' s  delicate  hand  in  his,  and  kissed  it  as  he  would 
have  kissed  that  of  a  queen. 

Left  alone,  Marsa  lay  there  motionless  for  more  than 
an  hour.  Then  she  started  suddenly,  hearing  the  clock 
strike  eleven,  and  rose  at  once. 

The  domestics  had  closed  the  house,    $he  went  out 

[Hi] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

by  a  back  door  which  was  used  by  the  servants,  the  key 
of  which  was  in  the  lock. 

She  crossed  the  garden,  beneath  the  dark  shadows  of 
the  trees,  with  a  slow,  mechanical  movement,  like  that 
of  a  somnambulist,  and  proceeded  to  the  kennel,  where 
the  great  Danish  hounds  and  the  colossus  of  the  Hima- 
layas were  baying,  and  rattling  their  chains. 

"Peace,  Ortog!    Silence,  Duna!" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  noise  ceased  as  by  en- 
chantment. 

She  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  kennel,  entered,  and 
caressed  the  heads  of  the  dogs,  as  they  placed  their 
pa\vs  upon  her  shoulders.  Then  she  unfastened  their 
chains,  and  in  a  clear,  vibrating  voice,  said  to  them: 

"Go!" 

She  saw  them  bound  out,  run  over  the  lawn,  and 
dash  into  the  bushes,  appearing  and  disappearing  like 
great,  fantastic  shadows,  in  the  pale  moonlight.  Then, 
slowly,  and  with  the  Muscovite  indifference  \vhich  her 
father,  Prince  Tchereteff,  might  have  displayed  when 
ordering  a  spy  or  a  traitor  to  be  shot,  she  retraced  her 
steps  to  the  house,  where  all  seemed  to  sleep,  murmur- 
ing, with  cold  irony,  in  a  sort  of  impersonal  affirmation, 
as  if  she  were  thinking  not  of  herself,  but  of  another : 

"Now,  I  hope  that  Prince  Zilah's  fiancee  is  well 
guarded!" 


I»rJ 


CHAPTER  XV 

CAS   CLINGS   THE   LEAF   UNTO   THE   TREE" 

^ICHEL  MENKO  was  alone  in  the 
little  house  he  had  hired  in  Paris,  in 
the  Rue  d'Aumale.  He  had  ordered 
his  coachman  to  have  his  coupe  in 
readiness  for  the  evening. 

"Take  Trilby,"  he  said.  "He  is  a 
better  horse  than  Jack,  and  we  have  a 
long  distance  to  go;  and  take  some 
coverings  for  yourself,  Pierre.  Until  this  evening,  I  am 
at  home  to  no  one." 

The  summer  day  passed  very  slowly  for  him  in  the 
suspense  of  waiting.  He  opened  and  read  the  letters  of 
which  he  had  spoken  to  Marsa  the  evening  before;  they 
always  affected  him  like  a  poison,  to  which  he  returned 
again  and  again  with  a  morbid  desire  for  fresh  suffering 
— love-letters,  the  exchange  of  vows  now  borne  away  as 
by  a  whirlwind,  but  which  revived  in  Michel's  mind 
happy  hours,  the  only  hours  of  his  life  in  which  he  had 
really  lived,  perhaps.  These  letters,  dated  from  Pau, 
burned  him  like  a  live  coal  as  he  read  them.  They  still 
retained  a  subtle  perfume,  a  fugitive  aroma,  which  had 
survived  their  love,  and  which  brought  Marsa  vividly 
before  his  eyes.  Then,  his  heart  bursting  with  jealousy 
rage,  he  threw  the  package  into  the  drawer  from 
[128] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

which  he  had  taken  it,  and  mechanically  picked  up  a 
volume  of  De  Musset,  opening  to  some  page  which  re- 
called his  own  suffering.  Casting  this  aside,  he  took 
up  another  book,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  passionate 
verses  of  the  soldier-poet,  Petcefi,  addressed  to  his 
Etelka: 

Thou  lovest  me  not  ?    What  matters  it  ? 
My  soul  is  linked  to  thine, 
As  clings  the  leaf  unto  the  tree : 
Cold  winter  comes;  it  falls;  let  be  ! 
So  I  for  thee  will  pine. 
My  fate  pursues  me  to  the  tomb. 
Thou  fiiest  ?    Even  in  its  gloom 
Thou  art  not  free. 

What  follows  in  thy  steps  ?    Thy  shade  ? 
Ah,  no!  my  soul  in  pain,  sweet  maid, 
E'er  watches  thee. 

"My  soul  is  linked  to  thine,  as  clings  the  leaf  unto  the 
tree!"  Michel  repeated  the  lines  with  a  sort  of  defi- 
ance in  his  look,  and  longed  impatiently  and  nervously 
for  the  day  to  end. 

A  rapid  flush  of  anger  mounted  to  his  face  as  his  valet 
entered  with  a  card  upon  a  salver,  and  he  exclaimed, 
harshly: 

"Did  not  Pierre  give  you  my  orders  that  I  would  re- 
ceive no  one?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur;  but  Monsieur  La- 
banoff insisted  so  strongly ' 

"Labanoff  ?"  repeated  Michel. 

"Monsieur  Labanoff,  who  leaves  Paris  this  evening, 
and  desires  to  see  Monsieur  before  his  departure." 
9  [  I29  ] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

The  name  of  Labanoff  recalled  to  Michel  an  old  friend 
whom  he  had  met  in  all  parts  of  Europe,  and  whom  he 
had  not  seen  for  a  long  time.  He  liked  him  exceedingly 
for  a  sort  of  odd  pessimism  of  aggressive  philosophy,  a 
species  of  mysticism  mingled  with  bitterness,  which  La- 
banoff took  no  pains  to  conceal.  The  young  Hungarian 
had,  perhaps,  among  the  men  of  his  own  age,  no  other 
friend  in  the  world  than  this  Russian  with  odd  ideas, 
whose  enigmatical  smile  puzzled  and  interested  him. 

He  looked  at  the  clock.  Labanoff 's  visit  might  make 
the  time  pass  until  dinner. 

" Admit  Monsieur  Labanoff!" 

In  a  few  moments  Labanoff  entered.  He  was  a  tall, 
thin  young  man,  with  a  complexion  the  color  of  wax, 
flashing  eyes,  and  a  little  pointed  mustache.  His  hair, 
black  and  curly,  was  brushed  straight  up  from  his  fore- 
head. He  had  the  air  of  a  soldier  in  his  long,  closely 
buttoned  frock-coat. 

It  was  many  months  since  these  two  men  had  met; 
but  they  had  been  long  bound  together  by  a  powerful 
sympathy,  born  of  quiet  talks  and  confidences,  in  which 
each  had  told  the  other  of  similar  sufferings.  A  long 
deferred  secret  hope  troubled  Labanoff  as  the  memory 
of  Marsa  devoured  Menko;  and  they  had  many  times 
exchanged  dismal  theories  upon  the  world,  life,  men, 
and  laws.  Their  common  bitterness  united  them. 
And  Michel  received  Labanoff,  despite  his  resolution 
to  receive  no  one,  because  he  was  certain  that  he 
should  find  in  him  the  same  suffering  as  that  expressed 
by  De  Musset  and  Petoefi. 

Labanoff,  to-day,  appeared  to  him  more  enigmatical 
[130] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

and  gloomy  than  ever.  From  the  lips  of  the  Russian 
fell  only  words  of  almost  tragical  mystery. 

Menko  made  him  sit  down  by  his  side  upon  a  divan, 
and  he  noticed  that  an  extraordinary  fever  seemed  to 
burn  in  the  blue  eyes  of  his  friend. 

"I  learned  that  you  had  returned  from  London,"  said 
Labanoff;  "and,  as  I  was  leaving  Paris,  I  wished  to  see 
you  before  my  departure.  It  is  possible  that  we  may 
never  see  each  other  again." 

"Why?" 

"I  am  going  to  St.  Petersburg  on  pressing  business." 

"Have  you  finished  your  studies  in  Paris?" 

"Oh!  I  had  already  received  my  medical  diploma 
when  I  came  here.  I  have  been  living  in  Paris  only  to 
be  more  at  my  ease  to  pursue — a  project  which  inter- 
ests me." 

"A  project?" 

Menko  asked  the  question  mechanically,  feeling  very 
little  curiosity  to  know  Labanoff' s  secret;  but  the 
Russian's  face  wore  a  strange,  ironical  smile  as  he 
answered : 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  on  that  subject,  even  to  the 
man  for  whom  I  have  the  most  regard." 

His  brilliant  eyes  seemed  to  see  strange  visions  before 
them.  He  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  rose 
with  an  abrupt  movement. 

"There,"  he  said,  "that  is  all  I  had  to  tell  you,  my 
dear  Menko.  Now,  au  revoir,  or  rather,  good-by ;  for, 
as  I  said  before,  I  shall  probably  never  see  you  again." 

"And  why,  pray?" 

" Oh!  I  don't  know;  it  is  an  idea  of  mine.  And  then, 
[131] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

my  beloved  Russia  is  such  a  strange  country.  Death 
comes  quickly  there." 

He  had  still  upon  his  lips  that  inexplicable  smile, 
jesting  and  sad  at  once. 

Menko  grasped  the  long,  white  hand  extended  to  him. 

"  My  dear  Labanoff,  it  is  not  difficult  to  guess  that  you 
are  going  on  some  dangerous  errand. ' '  Smiling :  ' '  I  will 
not  do  you  the  injustice  to  believe  you  a  nihilist." 

Labanoff's  blue  eyes  flashed. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  no,  I  am  not  a  nihilist.  Annihilation 
is  absurd;  but  liberty  is  a  fine  thing!" 

He  stopped  short,  as  if  he  feared  that  he  had  already 
said  too  much. 

"Adieu,  my  dear  Menko." 

The  Hungarian  detained  him  with  a  gesture,  saying, 
with  a  tremble  in  his  voice: 

"Labanoff!  You  have  found  me  when  a  crisis  in  my 
life  is  also  impending.  I  am  about,  like  yourself,  to 
commit  a  great  folly;  a  different  one  from  yours,  no 
doubt.  However,  I  have  no  right  to  tell  you  that  you 
are  about  to  commit  some  folly." 

"No,"  calmly  replied  the  Russian,  very  pale,  but  still 
smiling,  "it  is  not  a  folly." 

"But  it  is  a  danger?"  queried  Menko. 

Labanoff  made  no  reply. 

"I  do  not  know  either,"  said  Michel,  "how  my  affair 
will  end.  But,  since  chance  has  brought  us  together  to- 
day, face  to  face " 

"  It  was  not  chance,  but  my  own  firm  resolution  to  see 
you  again  before  my  departure." 

"I  know  what  your  friendship  for  me  is,  and  it  is  for 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

that  reason  that  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  frankly  where  you 
will  be  in  a  month." 

"In  a  month?"  repeated  Labanoff. 

"  Give  me  the  route  you  are  going  to  take  ?  Shall  you 
be  a  fixture  at  St.  Petersburg?" 

"Not  immediately,"  responded  the  Russian,  slowly, 
his  gaze  riveted  upon  Menko.  "  In  a  month  I  shall  still 
be  at  W.?.rsaw.  At  St.  Petersburg  the  month  after." 

"Thanks.  I  only  ask  you  to  let  me  know,  in  some 
way,  where  you  are." 

"Why?" 

"Because,  I  should  like  to  join  you." 

"You!" 

"  It  is  only  a  fancy,"  said  Menko,  with  an  attempt  at  a 
laugh.  "I  am  bored  with  life — you  know  it;  I  find  it  a 
nuisance.  If  we  did  not  spur  it  like  an  old,  musty 
horse,  it  would  give  us  the  same  idiotic  round  of  days. 
I  do  not  know — I  do  not  wish  to  know — why  you  are 
going  to  Russia,  and  what  this  final  farewell  of  which 
you  have  just  spoken  signifies;  I  simply  guess  that  you 
are  off  on  some  adventure,  and  it  is  possible  that  I  may 
ask  you  to  allow  me  to  share  it." 

"Why?"  said  Labanoff,  coldly.  "You  are  not  a 
Russian." 

Menko  smiled,  and,  placing  his  hands  upon  the  thin 
shoulders  of  his  friend,  he  said: 

"Those  words  reveal  many  things.  It  is  well  that 
they  were  not  said  before  an  agent  of  police." 

"Yes,"  responded  Labanoff,  firmly.  "But  I  am  not 
in  the  habit  of  recklessly  uttering  my  thoughts;  I  know 
that  I  am  speaking  now  to  Count  Menko." 

[i33] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"And  Count  Menko  will  be  delighted,  my  dear  Laba- 
noff ,  if  you  will  let  him  know  where,  in  Poland  or  Russia, 
he  must  go,  soon,  to  obtain  news  of  you.  Fear  nothing: 
neither  there  nor  here  will  I  question  you.  But  I  shall 
be  curious  to  know  what  has  become  of  you,  and  you 
know  that  I  have  enough  friendship  for  you  to  be  uneasy 
about  you.  Besides,  I  long  to  be  on  the  move;  Paris, 
London,  the  world,  in  short,  bores  me,  bores  me,  bores 
me!" 

"The  fact  is,  it  is  stupid,  egotistical  and  cowardly," 
responded  Labanoff. 

He  again  held  out  to  Menko  his  nervous  hand,  burn- 
ing, like  his  blue  eyes,  with  fever. 

"Farewell!"  he  said. 

"No,  no,  au  revoir!" 

"  Au  revoir  be  it  then.  I  will  let  you  know  what  has 
become  of  me." 

"And  where  you  are?" 

"And  where  I  am." 

"And  do  not  be  astonished  if  I  join  you  some  fine 
morning." 

"Nothing  ever  astonishes  me,"  said  the  Russian. 
"Nothing!" 

And  in  that  word  nothing  were  expressed  pro- 
found disgust  with  life  and  fierce  contempt  of 
death. 

Menko  warmly  grasped  his  friend's  thin  and  emaci- 
ated hand;  and,  the  last  farewell  spoken  to  the  fanatic 
departing  for  some  tragical  adventure,  the  Hungarian 
became  more  sombre  and  troubled  than  before,  and 
Labanoff 's  appearance  seemed  like  a  doubtful  appari- 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

tion.  He  returned  to  his  longing  to  see  the  end  of  the 
most  anxious  day  of  his  life. 

At  last,  late  in  the  evening,  Michel  entered  his  coupe, 
and  was  driven  away — down  the  Rue  d'Aumale, 
through  the  Rue  Pigalle  and  the  Rue  de  Douai,  to  the 
rondpoint  of  the  Place  Clichy,  the  two  lanterns  casting 
their  clear  light  into  the  obscurity.  The  coupe  then 
took  the  road  to  Maisons-Lafitte,  crossing  the  plain  and 
skirting  wheat-fields  and  vineyards,  with  the  towering 
silhouette  of  Mont  Valerien  on  the  left,  and  on  the 
right,  sharply  defined  against  the  sky,  a  long  line  of 
hills,  dotted  with  woods  and  villas,  and  with  little  vil- 
lages nestling  at  their  base,  all  plunged  in  a  mysterious 
shadow. 

Michel,  with  absent  eyes,  gazed  at  all  this,  as  Trilby 
rapidly  trotted  on.  He  was  thinking  of  what  lay  before 
him,  of  the  folly  he  was  about  to  commit,  as  he  had  said 
to  Labanoff.  It  was  a  folly;  and  yet,  who  could  tell? 
Might  not  Marsa  have  reflected?  Might  she  not, 
alarmed  at  his  threats,  be  now  awaiting  him?  Her 
exquisite  face,  like  a  lily,  rose  before  him;  an  over- 
whelming desire  to  annihilate  time  and  space  took  pos- 
session of  him,  and  he  longed  to  be  standing ,  key  in 
hand,  before  the  little  gate  in  the  garden  wall. 

He  was  well  acquainted  with  the  great  park  of  Mai- 
sons-Lafitte, with  the  white  villas  nestling  among  the 
trees.  On  one  side  Prince  Tchereteff's  house  looked 
out  upon  an  almost  desert  tract  of  land,  on  which  a  race- 
course had  been  mapped  out,  and  on  the  other  extended 
with  the  stables  and  servants'  quarters  to  the  forest,  the 
wall  of  the  Avenue  Lafittc  bounding  the  garden.  In 

[i35] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

front  of  the  villa  was  a  broad  lawn,  ending  in  a  low  wall 
with  carved  gates,  allowing,  through  the  branches  of  the 
oaks  and  chestnuts,  a  view  of  the  hills  of  Cormeilles. 

After  crossing  the  bridge  of  Sartrouville,  Michel 
ordered  his  coachman  to  drive  to  the  corner  of  the 
Avenue  Corneille,  where  he  alighted  in  the  shadow  of 
a  clump  of  trees. 

"You  will  wait  here,  Pierre,"  he  said,  "and  don't 
stir  till  I  return." 

He  walked  past  the  sleeping  houses,  under  the  mys- 
terious alleys  of  the  trees,  until  he  reached  the  broad 
avenue  which,  cutting  the  park  in  two,  ran  from  the 
station  to  the  forest.  The  alley  that  he  was  seeking 
descended  between  two  rows  of  tall,  thick  trees,  forming 
an  arch  overhead,  making  it  deliciously  cool  and  shady 
in  the  daytime,  but  now  looking  like  a  deep  hole,  black 
as  a  tunnel.  Pushing  his  way  through  the  trees  and 
bushes,  and  brushing  aside  the  branches  of  the  acacias, 
the  leaves  of  which  fell  in  showers  about  him,  Michel 
reached  an  old  wall,  the  white  stones  of  which  were  over- 
grown with  ivy.  Behind  the  wall  the  wind  rustled  amid 
the  pines  and  oaks  like  the  vague  murmur  of  a  coming 
storm.  And  there,  at  the  end  of  the  narrow  path,  half 
hidden  by  the  ivy,  was  the  little  gate  he  was  seeking. 
He  cautiously  brushed  aside  the  leaves  and  felt  for  the 
keyhole;  but,  just  as  he  was  about  to  insert  the  key, 
which  burned  in  his  feverish  fingers,  he  stopped  short. 

Was  Marsa  awaiting  him?  Would  she  not  call  for 
help,  drive  him  forth,  treat  him  like  a  thief? 

Suppose  the  gate  was  barred  from  within?  He 
looked  at  the  wall,  and  saw  that  by  clinging  to  the  ivy 

[136] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

/ 

he  could  reach  the  top.  He  had  not  come  here  to  hesi- 
tate. No,  a  hundred  times  no! 

Besides,  Marsa  was  certainly  there,  trembling,  fear- 
ful, cursing  him  perhaps,  but  still  there. 

"No,"  he  murmured  aloud  in  the  silence,  "were  even 
death  behind  that  gate,  I  would  not  recoil." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"IT  IS  A  MAN   THEY   ARE   DEVOURING!" 

[CHEL    MENKO    was    right.      The 
beautiful  Tzigana  was  awaiting  him. 

She  stood  at  her  window,  like  a 
spectre  in  her  white  dress,  her  hands 
clutching  the  sill,  and  her  eyes  striving 
to  pierce  the  darkness  which  enveloped 
everything,  and  opened  beneath  her 
like  a  black  gulf.  With  heart  oppressed 
with  fear,  she  started  at  the  least  sound. 

All  she  could  see  below  in  the  garden  were  the 
branches  defined  against  the  sky;  a  single  star  shining 
through  the  leaves  of  a  poplar,  like  a  diamond  in  a 
woman's  tresses;  and  under  the  window  the  black 
stretch  of  the  lawn  crossed  by  a  band  of  a  lighter  shade, 
which  was  the  sand  of  the  path.  The  only  sound  to  be 
heard  was  the  faint  tinkle  of  the  water  falling  into  the 
fountain. 

Her  glance,  shifting  as  her  thoughts,  wandered 
vaguely  over  the  trees,  the  open  spaces  which  seemed 
like  masses  of  heavy  clouds,  and  the  sky  set  with  con- 
stellations. She  listened  with  distended  ears,  and  a 
shudder  shook  her  whole  body  as  she  heard  suddenly 
the  distant  barking  of  a  dog. 
The  dog  perceived  some  one.  Was  it  Menko  ? 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

No:  the  sound,  a  howling  rather  than  a  barking,  came 
from  a  long  distance,  from  Sartrouville,  beyond  the 
Seine. 

"It  is  not  Duna  or  Bundas,"  she  murmured,  "nor 
Ortog.  What  folly  to  remain  here  at  the  window! 
Menko  will  not  come.  Heaven  grant  that  he  does  not 
come!" 

And  she  ^sighed  a  happy  sigh  as  if  relieved  of  a  terrible 
weight. 

Suddenly,  with  a  quick  movement,  she  started  vio- 
lently back,  as  if  some  frightful  apparition  had  risen  up 
before  her. 

Hoarse  bay  ings,  quite  different  from  the  distant  bark- 
ing of  a  moment  before,  rent  the  air,  and  were  repeated 
more  and  more  violently  below  there  in  the  darkness. 
This  time  it  was  indeed  the  great  Danish  hounds  and 
the  shaggy  colossus  of  the  Himalayas,  which  were  pre- 
cipitating themselves  upon  some  prey. 

"Great  God!  He  is  there,  then!  He  is  there!" 
whispered  Marsa,  paralyzed  with  horror. 

There  was  something  gruesome  in  the  cries  of  the  dogs, 
By  the  continued  repetition  of  the  savage  noises,  sharp, 
irritated,  frightful  snarls  and  yelps,  Marsa  divined  some 
horrible  struggle  in  the  darkness,  of  a  man  against  the 
beasts.  Then  all  her  terror  seemed  to  mount  to  her  lips 
in  a  cry  of  pity,  which  was  instantly  repressed.  She 
steadied  herself  against  the  window,  striving,  with  all  her 
strength,  to  reason  herself  into  calmness. 

"It  was  his  own  wish,"  she  thought. 

Did  she  not  know,  then,  what  she  was  doing  when, 
wishing  to  place  a  living  guard  between  herself  and 


JULES  CLARETIE 

danger,  she  had  descended  to  the  kennel  and  unloosed 
the  ferocious  animals,  which,  recognizing  her  voice,  had 
bounded  about  her  and  licked  her  hands  with  many 
manifestations  of  joy  ?  She  had  ascended  again  to  her 
chamber  and  extinguished  the  light,  around  which 
fluttered  the  moths,  beating  the  opal  shade  with  their 
downy  wings;  and,  in  the  darkness,  drinking  in  the  night- 
air  at  the  open  window,  she  had  waited,  saying  to  her- 
self that  Michel  Menko  would  not  come;  but,  if  he  did 
come,  it  was  the  will  of  fate  that  he  should  fall  a  victim 
to  the  devoted  dogs  which  guarded  her. 

Why  should  she  pity  him? 

She  hated  him,  this  Michel.  He  had  threatened  her, 
and  she  had  defended  herself,  that  was  all.  Ortog's  teeth 
were  made  for  thieves  and  intruders.  No  pity!  No, 
no — no  pity  for  such  a  coward,  since  he  had  dared 

But  yet,  as  the  ferocious  bayings  of  the  dogs  below 
became  redoubled  in  their  fury,  she  imagined,  in  terror, 
a  crunching  of  bones  and  a  tearing  of  flesh;  and,  as  her 
imagination  conjured  up  before  her  Michel  fighting,  in 
hideous  agony,  against  the  bites  of  the  dogs,  she  shud- 
dered; she  was  afraid,  and  again  a  stifled  cry  burst  forth 
from  her  lips.  A  sort  of  insanity  took  possession  of  her. 
She  tried  to  cry  out  for  mercy  as  if  the  animals  could 
hear  her;  she  sought  the  door  of  her  chamber,  groping 
along  the  wall  with  her  hands  outspread  before  her,  in 
order  to  descend  the  staircase  and  rush  out  into  the 
garden;  but  her  limbs  gave  way  beneath  her,  and  she 
sank  an  inert  mass  upon  the  carpet  in  an  agony  of  fear 
and  horror. 

"My  GocJ!  My  God!  It  is  a  man  they  are  devour* 
[140] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

ing;"  and  her  voice  died  away  in  a  smothered  call  for 
help. 

Then  she  suddenly  raised  her  head,  as  if  moved  by 
an  electric  shock. 

There  was  no  more  noise!  Nothing!  The  black 
night  had  all  at  once  returned  to  its  great,  mysterious 
silence.  Marsa  experienced  a  sensation  of  seeing  a  pall 
stretched  over  a  dead  body.  And  in  the  darkness  there 
seemed  to  float  large  spots  of  blood. 

"Ah!  the  unhappy  man!"  she  faltered. 

Then,  again,  the  voices  of  the  dogs  broke  forth,  rapid, 
angry,  still  frightfully  threatening.  The  animals  ap- 
peared now  to  be  running,  and  their  bayings  became 
more  and  more  distant. 

What  had  happened? 

One  would  have  said  that  they  were  dragging  away 
their  prey,  tearing  it  with  hideous  crimson  fangs. 


t'4'J 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MARSA'S  GUARDIANS. 

?AS  Michel  Menko  indeed  dead?  We 
left  him  just  as  he  was  turning  the  key 
in  the  little  gate  in  the  wall.  He 
walked  in  boldly,  and  followed  a  path 
leading  to  an  open  space  where  was  the 
pavilion  he  had  spoken  of  to  Marsa. 
He  looked  to  see  whether  the  windows  of 
the  pavilion  were  lighted,  or  whether 
there  were  a  line  of  light  under  the  door.  No:  the 
delicate  tracery  of  the  pagoda-like  structure  showed 
dimly  against  the  sky;  but  there  was  no  sign  of  life. 
Perhaps,  however,  Marsa  was  there  in  the  darkness. 

He  would  glide  under  the  window  and  call.  Then, 
hearing  him  and  frightened  at  so  much  audacity,  she 
would  descend. 

He  advanced  a  few  steps  toward  the  pavilion ;  but,  all 
at  once,  in  the  part  of  the  garden  which  seemed  lightest, 
upon  the  broad  gravel  walk,  he  perceived  odd,  creeping 
shadows,  which  the  moon,  emerging  from  a  cloud, 
showed  to  be  dogs,  enormous  dogs,  with  their  ears  erect, 
which,  with  a  bound  and  a  low,  deep  growl,  made  a  dash 
toward  him  with  outspread  limbs — a  dash  terrible  as 
the  leap  of  a  tiger. 
A  quick  thought  illumined  Michel's  brain  like  a  flash 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

of  electricity:  "Ah!  this  is  Marsa's  answer!"  He  had 
just  time  to  mutter,  with  raging  irony: 

"I  was  right,  she  was  waiting  for  me!" 

Then,  before  the  onslaught  of  the  dogs,  he  recoiled, 
clasping  his  hands  upon  his  breast  and  boldly  thrusting 
out  his  elbows  to  ward  off  their  ferocious  attacks.  With 
a  sudden  tightening  of  the  muscles  he  repulsed  the 
Danish  hounds,  which  rolled  over  writhing  on  the 
ground,  and  then,  with  formidable  baying,  returned 
more  furiously  still  to  the  charge. 

Michel  Menko  had  no  weapon. 

With  a  knife  he  could  have  defended  himself,  and  slit 
the  bellies  of  the  maddened  animals;  but  he  had  noth- 
ing! Was  he  to  be  forced,  then,  to  fly,  pursued  like  a 
fox  or  a  deer? 

Suppose  the  servants,  roused  by  the  noise  of  the 
dogs,  should  come  in  their  turn,  and  seize  him  as  a 
thief  ?  At  all  events,  that  would  be  comparative  safety ; 
at  least,  they  would  rescue  him  from  these  monsters. 
But  no:  nothing  stirred  in  the  silent,  impassive 
house. 

The  hounds,  erect  upon  their  hind  legs,  rushed  again 
at  Michel,  who,  overturning  them  with  blows  from  his 
feet,  and  striking  them  violently  in  the  jaws,  now  stag- 
gered back,  Ortog  having  leaped  at  his  throat.  By  a 
rapid  movement  of  recoil,  the  young  man  managed  to 
avoid  being  strangled ;  but  the  terrible  teeth  of  the  dog, 
tearing  his  coat  and  shirt  into  shreds,  buried  themselves 
deep  in  the  flesh  of  his  shoulder. 

The  steel-like  muscles  and  sinewy  strength  of  the 
Iiungaria.q  now  stood  him  in  good  stead,  He  must 


JULES  CLARETIE 

either  'free  himself,  or  perish  there  in  the  hideous  car- 
nage of  a  quarry.  He  seized  with  both  hands,  in  a  vise- 
like  grip,  Ortog's  enormous  neck,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
with  a  desperate  jerk,  shook  free  his  shoulder,  leaving 
strips  of  his  flesh  between  the  jaws  of  the  animal,  whose 
hot,  reeking  breath  struck  him  full  in  the  face.  With 
wild,  staring  eyes,  and  summoning  up,  in  an  instinct  of 
despair,  all  his  strength  and  courage,  he  buried  his  fin- 
gers in  Ortog's  neck,  and  drove  his  nails  through  the  skin 
of  the  colossus,  which  struck  and  beat  with  his  paws 
against  the  young  man's  breast.  The  dog's  tongue 
hung  out  of  his  mouth,  under  the  suffocating  pressure 
of  the  hands  of  the  human  being  struggling  for  his  life. 
As  he  fought  thus  against  Ortog,  the  Hungarian  gradu- 
ally retreated,  the  two  hounds  leaping  about  him,  now 
driven  off  by  kicks  (Duna's  jaw  was  broken),  and  now, 
with  roars  of  rage  and  fiery  eyes,  again  attacking  their 
human  prey. 

One  of  them,  Bundas,  his  teeth  buried  in  Michel's  left 
thigh,  shook  him,  trying  to  throw  him  to  the  ground.  A 
slip,  and  all  would  be  over;  if  he  should  fall  upon  the 
gravel,  the  man  would  be  torn  to  pieces  and  crunched 
like  a  deer  caught  by  the  hounds. 

A  terrible  pain  nearly  made  Michel  faint — Bundas 
had  let  go  his  hold,  stripping  off  a  long  tongue  of  flesh; 
but,  in  a  moment,  it  had  the  same  effect  upon  him  as 
that  of  the  knife  of  a  surgeon  opening  a  vein,  and  the 
weakness  passed  away.  The  unfortunate  man  still 
clutched,  as  in  a  death-grip,  Ortog's  shaggy  neck,  and 
he  perceived  that  the  struggles  of  the  dog  were  no  longer 
of  the  same  terrible  violence;  the  eyes  of  the  ferocious 

[M4] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

brute  were  rolled  back  in  his  head  until  they  looked  like 
two  large  balls  of  gleaming  ivory.  Michel  threw  the 
heavy  mass  furiously  from  him,  and  the  dog,  suffocated, 
almost  dead,  fell  upon  the  ground  with  a  dull,  heavy 
sound. 

Menko  had  now  to  deal  only  with  the  Danish  hounds, 
which  were  rendered  more  furious  than  ever  by  the 
smell  of  blood.  One  of  them,  displaying  his  broken 
teeth  in  a  hideous,  snarling  grin,  hesitated  a  little  to  re- 
new the  onslaught,  ready,  as  he  was,  to  spring  at  his 
enemy's  throat  at  the  first  false  step;  but  the  other, 
Bundas,  with  open  mouth,  still  sprang  at  Michel,  who 
repelled,  with  his  left  arm,  the  attacks  of  the  bloody 
jaws.  Suddenly  a  hollow  cry  burst  from  his  lips  like  a 
death-rattle,  forced  from  him  as  the  dog  buried  his  fangs 
in  his  forearm,  until  they  nearly  met.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  end  had  now  come. 

Each  second  took  away  more  and  more  of  his  strength. 
The  tremendous  tension  of  muscles  and  nerves,  which 
had  been  necessary  in  the  battle  with  Ortog,  and  the 
blood  he  had  lost,  his  whole  left  side  being  gashed  as 
with  cuts  from  a  knife,  weakened  him.  He  calculated, 
that,  unless  he  could  reach  the  little  gate  before  the 
other  dog  should  make  up  his  mind  to  leap  upon  him, 
he  was  lost,  irredeemably  lost. 

Bundas  did  not  let  go  his  hold,  but  twisting  himself 
around  Michel's  body,  he  clung  with  his  teeth  to  the 
young  man's  lacerated  arm;  the  other,  Duna,  bayed 
horribly,  ready  to  spring  at  any  moment. 

Michel  gathered  together  all  the  strength  that  re- 
mained to  him,  and  ran  rapidly  backward,  carrying  with 
10  [  145  ] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

him  the  furious  beast,  which  was  crushing  the  very  bones 
of  his  arm. 

He  reached  the  end  of  the  walk,  and  the  gate  was 
there  before  him.  Groping  in  the  darkness  with  his 
free  hand,  he  found  the  key,  turned  it,  and  the  gate  flew 
open.  Fate  evidently  did  not  wish  him  to  perish. 

Then,  in  the  same  way  as  he  had  shaken  off  Ortog, 
whom  he  could  now  hear  growling  and  stumbling  over 
the  gravel  a  little  way  off,  Michel  freed  his  arm  from 
Bundas,  forcing  his  ringers  and  nails  into  the  animal's 
ears;  and  the  moment  he  had  thrown  the  brute  to  the 
ground,  he  dashed  through  the  gate,  and  slammed  it  to 
behind  him,  just  as  the  two  dogs  together  were  preparing 
to  leap  again  upon  him. 

Then,  leaning  against  the  gate,  and  steadying  himself, 
so  as  not  to  fall,  he  stood  there  weak  and  faint,  while  the 
dogs,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wooden  partition  which 
now  separated  him  from  death — and  what  a  death!— 
erect  upon  their  hind  legs,  like  rampant,  heraldic 
animals,  tried  to  break  through,  cracking,  in  their  gory 
jaws,  long  strips  of  wood  torn  from  the  barrier  which 
kept  them  from  their  human  prey. 

Michel  never  knew  how  long  he  remained  there,  lis- 
tening to  the  hideous  growling  of  his  bloodthirsty  ene- 
mies. At  last  the  thought  came  to  him  that  he  must  go ; 
but  how  was  he  to  drag  himself  to  the  place  where  Pierre 
was  waiting  for  him  ?  It  was  so  far !  so  far !  He  would 
faint  twenty  times  before  reaching  there.  Was  he  about 
to  fail  now  after  all  he  had  gone  through? 

His  left  leg  was  frightfully  painful ;  but  he  thought  he 
could  manage  to  walk  with  it.  His  left  shoulder  and 

[146] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

arm,  however,  at  the  least  movement,  caused  him  atro- 
cious agony,  as  if  the  bones  had  been  crushed  by  the 
wheel  of  some  machine.  He  sought  for  his  handker- 
chief, and  enveloped  his  bleeding  arm  in  it,  tying  the 
ends  of  it  with  his  teeth.  Then  he  tottered  to  a  wood- 
pile near  by,  and,  taking  one  of  the  long  sticks,  he  man- 
aged with  its  aid  to  drag  himself  along  the  alley,  while 
through  the  branches  the  moon  looked  calmly  down 
upon  him. 

He  was  worn  out,  and  his  head  seemed  swimming  in  a 
vast  void,  when  he  reached  the  end  of  the  alley,  and  saw, 
a  short  way  off  down  the  avenue,  the  arch  of  the  old 
bridge  near  which  the  coupe  had  stopped.  One  effort 
more,  a  few  steps,  and  he  was  there!  He  was  afraid 
now  of  falling  unconscious,  and  remaining  there  in  a 
dying  condition,  without  his  coachman  even  suspecting 
that  he  was  so  near  him. 

"Courage!"  he  murmured.     "On!    On!" 

Two  clear  red  lights  appeared — the  lanterns  of  the 
coupe.  "Pierre!"  cried  Michel  in  the  darkness, 
"Pierre!"  But  he  felt  that  his  feeble  voice  would  not 
reach  the  coachman,  who  was  doubtless  asleep  on  his 
box.  Once  more  he  gathered  together  his  strength, 
called  again,  and  advanced  a  little,  saying  to  himself 
that  a  step  or  two  more  perhaps  meant  safety.  Then, 
all  at  once,  he  fell  prostrate  upon  his  side,  unable  to  pro- 
ceed farther;  and  his  voice,  weaker  and  weaker,  gradu- 
ally failed  him. 

Fortunately,  the  coachman  had  heard  him  cry,  and 
realized  that  something  had  happened.  He  jumped 
from  his  box,  ran  to  his  master,  lifted  him  up,  and  car- 

[i47l 


JULES  CLARETIE 

ried  him  to  the  carriage.  As  the  light  of  the  lamps  fell 
on  the  torn  and  bloody  garments  of  the  Count,  whose 
pallid  and  haggard  face  was  that  of  a  dead  man,  Pierre 
uttered  a  cry  of  fright. 

"Great  heavens!  Where  have  you  been?"  he  ex- 
claimed. "You  have  been  attacked?" 

"The  coupe — place  me  in  the  coupe." 

"But  there  are  doctors  here.    I  will  go " 

"No — do  nothing.  Make  no  noise.  Take  me  to 
Paris — I  do  not  wish  any  one  to  know —  To  Paris — at 
once,"  and  he  lost  consciousness. 

Pierre,  with  some  brandy  he  luckily  had  with  him, 
bathed  his  master's  temples,  and  forced  a  few  drops  be- 
tween his  lips;  and,  when  the  Count  had  recovered,  he 
whipped  up  his  horse  and  galloped  to  Paris,  growling, 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders: 

"There  must  have  been  a  woman  in  this.  Curse  the 
women!  They  make  all  the  trouble  in  the  world." 

It  was  daybreak  when  the  coupe  reached  Paris. 

Pierre  heard,  as  they  passed  the  barrier,  a  laborer  say 
to  his  mate: 

"  That's  a  fine  turnout.  I  wish  I  was  in  the  place  of 
the  one  who  is  riding  inside!" 

"So  do  I!"  returned  the  other. 

And  Pierre  thought,  philosophically : "  Poor  fools !  If 
they  only  knew!" 


[148] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

: THERE  IS  NO   NEED  OF  ACCUSING  ANYONE." 

JT  the  first  streak  of  daylight,  Marsa  de- 
scended, trembling,  to  the  garden,  and 
approached  the  little  gate,  wondering 
what  horror  would  meet  her  eyes. 

Rose-colored  clouds,  like  delicate, 
silky  flakes  of  wool,  floated  across  the 
blue  sky;  the  paling  crescent  of  the 
moon,  resembling  a  bent  thread  of 
silver  wire,  seemed  about  to  fade  mistily  away;  and, 
toward  the  east,  in  the  splendor  of  the  rising  sun,  the 
branches  of  the  trees  stood  out  against  a  background 
of  burnished  gold  as  in  a  Byzantine  painting.  The 
dewy  calm  and  freshness  of  the  early  morning  enveloped 
everything  as  in  a  bath  of  purity  and  youth. 

But  Marsa  shuddered  as  she  thought  that  perhaps 
this  beautiful  day  was  dawning  upon  a  dead  body.  She 
stopped  abruptly  as  she  saw  the  gardener,  with  very  pale 
face,  come  running  toward  her. 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  something  terrible  has  hap- 
pened! Last  night  the  dogs  barked  and  barked;  but 
they  bark  so  often  at  the  moon  and  the  shadows,  that 
no  one  got  up  to  see  what  was  the  matter." 

"Well — well?"  gasped  Marsa,  her  hand  involuntarily 
seeking  her  heart. 

"Well,  there  was  a  thief  here  last  night,  or  several  of 


JULES  CLARETIE 

them,  for  poor  Ortog  is  half  strangled;  but  the  rascals 
did  not  get  away  scot  free.  The  one  who  came  through 
the  little  path  to  the  pavilion  was  badly  bitten;  his 
tracks  can  be  followed  in  blood  for  a  long  distance — 
a  very  long  distance." 

"Then,"  asked  Marsa,  quickly,  "he  escaped ?  He  is 
not  dead?" 

"No,  certainly  not.     He  got  away." 

"Ah!  Thank  heaven  for  that!"  cried  the  Tzigana, 
her  mind  relieved  of  a  heavy  weight. 

"Mademoiselle  is  too  good,"  said  the  gardener. 
"When  a  man  enters,  like  that,  another  person's  place, 
he  exposes  himself  to  be  chased  like  a  rabbit,  or  to  be 
made  mincemeat  of  for  the  dogs.  He  must  have  had  big 
muscles  to  choke  Ortog,  the  poor  beast ! — not  to  men- 
tion that  Duna's  teeth  are  broken.  But  the  scoundrel 
got  his  share,  too ;  for  he  left  big  splashes  of  blood  upon 
the  gravel." 

"Blood!" 

"The  most  curious  thing  is  that  the  little  gate,  to 
which  there  is  no  key,  is  unlocked.  They  came  in  and 
went  out  there.  If  that  idiot  of  a  Saboureau,  whom 
General  Vogotzine  discharged — and  rightly  too,  Made- 
moiselle— were  not  dead,  I  should  say  that  he  was  at 
the  bottom  of  all  this." 

"There  is  no  need  of  accusing  anyone,"  said  Marsa, 
turning  away. 

The  gardener  returned  to  the  neighborhood  of  the 
pavilion,  and,  examining  the  red  stains  upon  the  ground, 
he  said:  "All  the  same,  this  did  not  happen  by  itself. 
I  am  going  to  inform  the  police!" 

[150] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

:A   BEAUTIFUL   DREAM5  * 

T  was  the  eve  of  the  marriage-day  of 
Prince  Andras  Zilah  and  Mademoiselle 
Marsa  Laszlo,  and  Marsa  sat  alone  in 
her  chamber,  where  the  white  robes  she 
was  to  wear  next  day  were  spread  out 
on  the  bed;  alone  for  the  last  time 
—to-morrow  she  would  be  another's. 
The  fiery  Tzigana,  who  felt  in  her  heart, 
implacable  as  it  was  to  evil  and  falsehood,  all  capabili- 
ties of  devotion  and  truth,  was  condemned  to  lie,  or  to 
lose  the  love  of  Prince  Andras,  which  was  her  very  life. 
There  was  no  other  alternative.  No,  no :  since  she  had 
met  this  man,  superior  to  all  others,  since  he  loved  her 
and  she  loved  him,  she  would  take  an  hour  of  his  life 
and  pay  for  that  hour  with  her  own.  She  had  no  doubt 
but  that  an  avowal  would  forever  ruin  her  in  Andras' s 
eyes.  No,  again  and  forever  no :  it  was  much  better  to 
take  the  love  which  fate  offered  her  in  exchange  for  her 
life. 

And,  as  she  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair  with  an 
expression  of  unchangeable  determination  in  her  dark, 
gazelle-like  eyes,  there  suddenly  came  into  her  mind  the 
memory  of  a  day  long  ago,  when,  driving  along  the  road 
from  Maisons-Lafitte  to  Saint-Germain,  she  had  met 


JULES  CLARETIE 

some  wandering  gipsies,  two  men  and  a  woman,  with 
copper-colored  skins  and  black  eyes,  in  which  burned, 
like  a  live  coal,  the  passionate  melancholy  of  the  race. 
The  woman,  a  sort  of  long  spear  in  her  hand,  was  driving 
some  little  shaggy  ponies,  like  those  which  range  about 
the  plains  of  Hungary.  Bound  like  parcels  upon  the 
backs  of  these  ponies  were  four  or  five  little  children, 
clothed  in  rags,  and  covered  with  the  dust  of  the  road. 
The  woman,  tall,  dark  and  faded,  a  sort  of  turban  upon 
her  head,  held  out  her  hand  toward  Marsa's  carriage 
with  a  graceful  gesture  and  a  broad  smile — the  suppli- 
cating smile  of  those  who  beg.  A  muscular  young  fel- 
low, his  crisp  hair  covered  with  a  red  fez,  her  brother— 
the  woman  was  old,  or  perhaps  she  was  less  so  than  she 
seemed,  for  poverty  brings  wrinkles — walked  by  her  side 
behind  the  sturdy  little  ponies.  Farther  along,  another 
man  waited  for  them  at  a  corner  of  the  road  near  a 
laundry,  the  employees  of  which  regarded  him  with 
alarm,  because,  at  the  end  of  a  rope,  the  gipsy  held  a 
small  gray  bear.  As  she  passed  by  them,  Marsa  in- 
voluntarily exclaimed,  in  the  language  of  her  mother: 
" Be  szomoru!"  (How  sad  it  is !)  The  man,  at  her  words, 
raised  his  head,  and  a  flash  of  joy  passed  over  his  face, 
which  showed,  or  Marsa  thought  so  (who  knows?  per- 
haps she  was  mistaken),  a  love  for  his  forsaken  country. 
Well,  now,  she  did  not  know  why,  the  remembrance  of 
these  poor  beings  returned  to  her,  and  she  said  to  her- 
self that  her  ancestors,  humble  and  insignificant  as  these 
unfortunates  in  the  dust  and  dirt  of  the  highway,  would 
have  been  astonished  and  incredulous  if  any  one  had 
told  them  that  some  day  a  girl  born  of  their  blood  would 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

wed  a  Zilah,  one  of  the  chiefs  of  that  Hungary  whose 
obscure  and  unknown  minstrels  they  were !  Ah !  what  an 
impossible  dream  it  seemed,  and  yet  it  was  realized  now. 

At  all  events,  a  man's  death  did  not  lie  between  her 
and  Zilah.  Michel  Menko,  after  lying  at  death's  door, 
was  cured  of  his  wounds.  She  knew  this  from  Baroness 
Dinati,  who  attributed  Michel's  illness  to  a  sword  wound 
secretly  received  for  some  woman.  This  was  the  rumor 
in  Paris.  The  young  Count  had,  in  fact,  closed  his 
doors  to  every  one;  and  no  one  but  his  physician  had 
been  admitted.  What  woman  could  it  be?  The  little 
Baroness  could  not  imagine. 

Marsa  thought  again,  with  a  shudder,  of  the  night 
when  the  dogs  howled ;  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  had  no 
remorse.  She  had  simply  defended  herself!  The  in- 
quiry begun  by  the  police  had  ended  in  no  definite  re- 
sult. At  Maisons-Lantte,  people  thought  that  the  Rus- 
sian house  had  been  attacked  by  some  thieves  who  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  entering  unoccupied  houses  and 
rifling  them  of  their  contents.  They  had  even  arrested 
an  old  vagabond,  and  accused  him  of  the  attempted 
robbery  at  General  Vogotzine's;  but  the  old  man  had 
answered:  "I  do  not  even  know  the  house."  But  was 
not  this  Menko  a  hundred  times  more  culpable  than  a 
thief  ?  It  was  more  and  worse  than  money  or  silver  that 
he  had  dared  to  come  for :  it  was  to  impose  his  love  upon 
a  woman  whose  heart  he  had  wellnigh  broken.  Against 
such  an  attack  all  weapons  were  allowable,  even  Or- 
tog's  teeth.  The  dogs  of  the  Tzigana  had  known  how 
to  defend  her;  and  it  was  what  she  had  expected  from 
her  comrades. 

[153] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

Had  Michel  Menko  died,  Marsa  would  have  said, 
with  the  fatalism  of  the  Orient:  "It  was  his  own  will!" 
She  was  grateful,  however,  to  fate,  for  having  punished 
the  wretch  by  letting  him  live.  Then  she  thought  no 
more  of  him  except  to  execrate  him  for  having  poisoned 
her  happiness,  and  condemned  her  either  to  a  silence 
as  culpable  as  a  lie,  or  to  an  avowal  as  cruel  as  a 
suicide. 

The  night  passed  and  the  day  came  at  last,  when  it 
was  necessary  for  Marsa  to  become  the  wife  of  Prince 
Andras,  or  to  confess  to  him  her  guilt.  She  wished  that 
she  had  told  him  all,  now  that  she  had  not  the  courage 
to  do  so.  She  had  accustomed  herself  to  the  idea  that  a 
woman  is  not  necessarily  condemned  to  love  no  more 
because  she  has  encountered  a  coward  who  has  abused 
her  love.  She  was  in  an  atmosphere  of  illusion  and 
chimera ;  what  was  passing  about  her  did  not  even  seem 
to  exist.  Her  maids  dressed  her,  and  placed  upon  her 
dark  hair  the  bridal  veil:  she  half  closed  her  eyes  and 
murmured : 

"It  is  a  beautiful  dream." 

A  dream,  and  yet  a  reality,  consoling  as  a  ray  of  light 
after  a  hideous  nightmare.  Those  things  which  were 
false,  impossible,  a  lie,  a  phantasmagoria  born  of  a  fever, 
were  Michel  Menko,  the  past  years,  the  kisses  of  long 
ago,  the  threats  of  yesterday,  the  bayings  of  the  infuri- 
ated dogs  at  that  shadow  which  did  not  exist. 

General  Vogotzine,  in  a  handsome  uniform,  half  suf- 
focated in  his  high  vest,  and  with  a  row  of  crosses  upon 
his  breast — the  military  cross  of  St.  George,  with  its  red 
and  black  ribbon;  the  cross  of  St,  Anne,  with  its  rec] 

[«S4] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

ribbon;  all  possible  crosses — was  the  first  to  knock  at 
his  niece's  door,  his  sabre  trailing  upon  the  floor. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  Marsa. 

"I,  Vogotzine." 

And,  permission  being  given  him,  he  entered  the 
room. 

The  old  soldier  walked  about  his  niece,  pulling  his 
moustache,  as  if  he  were  conducting  an  inspection.  He 
found  Marsa  charming.  Pale  as  her  white  robe,  with 
Tizsa's  opal  agraffe  at  her  side,  ready  to  clasp  the  bou- 
quet of  flowers  held  by  one  of  her  maids,  she  had  never 
been  so  exquisitely  beautiful;  and  Vogotzine,  who  was 
rather  a  poor  hand  at  turning  a  compliment,  compared 
her  to  a  marble  statue. 

"How  gallant  you  are  this  morning,  General,"  she 
said,  her  heart  bursting  with  emotion. 

She  waved  away,  with  a  brusque  gesture,  the  orange- 
flowers  which  her  maid  was  about  to  attach  to  her 
corsage. 

"No,"  she  said.     "Not  that!    Roses." 

"But,  Mademoiselle— 

"Roses,"  repeated  Marsa.  "And  for  my  hair  white 
rosebuds  also." 

At  this,  the  old  General  risked  another  speech. 

"Do  you  think  orange-blossoms  are  too  vulgar,  Marsa  ? 
By  Jove!  They  don't  grow  in  the  ditches,  though!" 

And  he  laughed  loudly  at  what  he  considered  wit. 
But  a  frowning  glance  from  the  Tzigana  cut  short  his 
hilarity;  and,  with  a  mechanical  movement,  he  drew 
himself  up  in  a  military  manner,  as  if  the  Czar  were 
passing  by, 

['55  J 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"I  will  leave  you  to  finish  dressing,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment. 

He  already  felt  stifled  in  the  uniform,  which  he  was  no 
longer  accustomed  to  wear,  and  he  went  out  in  the  gar- 
den to  breathe  freer.  While  waiting  there  for  Zilah,  he 
ordered  some  cherry  cordial,  muttering,  as  he  drank  it: 

"It  is  beautiful  August  weather.  They  will  have  a 
fine  day;  but  I  shall  suffocate!" 

The  avenue  was  already  filled  with  people.  The 
marriage  had  been  much  discussed,  both  in  the  fash- 
ionable colony  which  inhabited  the  park  and  in  the 
village  forming  the  democratic  part  of  the  place;  even 
from  Sartrouville  and  Mesnil,  people  had  come  to  see 
the  Tzigana  pass  in  her  bridal  robes. 

"What  is  all  that  noise?"  demanded  Vogotzine  of  the 
liveried  footman. 

"That  noise,  General?  The  inhabitants  of  Maisons 
who  have  come  to  see  the  wedding  procession." 

"Really?  Ah!  really?  Well,  they  haven't  bad 
taste.  They  will  see  a  pretty  woman  and  a  handsome 
uniform."  And  the  General  swelled  out  his  breast  as  he 
used  to  do  in  the  great  parades  of  the  time  of  Nicholas, 
and  the  reviews  in  the  camp  of  Tsarskoe-Selo. 

Outside  the  garden,  behind  the  chestnut-trees  which 
hid  the  avenue,  there  was  a  sudden  sound  of  the  rolling 
of  wheels,  and  the  gay  cracking  of  whips. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  General,  "It  is  Zilah!" 

And,  rapidly  swallowing  a  last  glass  of  the  cordial,  he 
wiped  his  moustache,  and  advanced  to  meet  Prince  An- 
dras,  who  was  descending  from  his  carriage. 

Accompanying  the  Prince  were  Yanski  Varhe*ly,  and 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

an  Italian  friend  of  Zilah's,  Angelo  Valla,  a  former  min- 
ister of  the  Republic  of  Venice,  in  the  time  of  Manin. 
Andras  Zilah,  proud  and  happy,  appeared  to  have 
hardly  passed  his  thirtieth  year;  a  ray  of  youth  ani- 
mated his  clear  eyes.  He  leaped  lightly  out  upon  the 
gravel,  which  cracked  joyously  beneath  his  feet;  and,  as 
he  advanced  through  the  aromatic  garden,  to  the  villa 
where  Marsa  awaited  him,  he  said  to  himself  that  no 
man  in  the  world  was  happier  than  he. 

Vogotzine  met  him,  and,  after  shaking  his  hand, 
asked  him  why  on  earth  he  had  not  put  on  his  national 
Magyar  costume,  which  the  Hungarians  wore  with  such 
graceful  carelessness. 

"Look  at  me,  my  dear  Prince!  I  am  in  full  battle 
array!" 

Andras  was  in  haste  to  see  Marsa.  He  smiled 
politely  at  the  General's  remark,  and  asked  him  where 
his  niece  was. 

"She  is  putting  on  her  uniform,"  replied  Vogotzine, 
with  a  loud  laugh  which  made  his  sabre  rattle. 

Most  of  the  invited  guests  were  to  go  directly  to  the 
church  of  Maisons.  Only  the  intimate  friends  came 
first  to  the  house,  Baroness  Dinati,  first  of  all,  accom- 
panied by  Paul  Jacquemin,  who  took  his  eternal  notes, 
complimenting  both  Andras  and  the  General,  the  latter 
especially  eager  to  detain  as  many  as  possible  to  the 
lunch  after  the  ceremony.  Vogotzine,  doubtless,  wished 
to  show  himself  in  all  the  eclat  of  his  majestic  appetite. 

Very  pretty,  in  her  Louis  Seize  gown  of  pink  brocade, 
and  a  Rembrandt  hat  with  a  long  white  feather  (Jacque- 
min, who  remained  below,  had  already  written  down 


JULES  CLARETIE 

the  description  in  his  note-book),  the  little  Baroness 
entered  Marsa's  room  like  a  whirlwind,  embracing  the 
young  girl,  and  going  into  ecstasy  over  her  beauty. 

"Ah!  how  charming  you  are,  my  dear  child!  You 
are  the  ideal  of  a  bride !  You  ought  to  be  painted  as  you 
are !  And  what  good  taste  to  wear  roses,  and  not  orange- 
flowers,  which  are  so  common,  and  only  good  for  shop- 
girls. Turn  around!  You  are  simply  exquisite." 

Marsa,  paler  than  her  garments,  looked  at  herself  in 
the  glass,  happy  in  the  knowledge  of  her  beauty,  since 
she  was  about  to  be  his,  and  yet  contemplating  the  tall, 
white  figure  as  if  it  were  not  her  own  image. 

She  had  often  felt  this  impression  of  a  twofold  being, 
in  those  dreams  where  one  seems  to  be  viewing  the  life 
of  another,  or  to  be  the  disinterested  spectator  of  one's 
own  existence. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  not  she  who  was  to  be 
married,  or  that  suddenly  the  awakening  would  come. 

"The  Prince  is  below,"  said  the  Baroness  Dinati. 

"Ah!"  said  Marsa. 

She  started  with  a  sort  of  involuntary  terror,  as  this 
very  name  of  Prince  was  at  once  that  of  a  husband  and 
that  of  a  judge.  But  when,  superb  in  the  white  draper- 
ies, which  surrounded  her  like  a  cloud  of  purity,  her 
long  train  trailing  behind  her,  she  descended  the  stairs, 
her  little  feet  peeping  in  and  out  like  two  white  doves, 
and  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  little  salon  where  An- 
dras  was  waiting,  she  felt  herself  enveloped  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  love.  The  Prince  advanced  to  meet  her,  his 
face  luminous  with  happiness;  and,  taking  the  young 
girl's  hands,  he  kissed  the  long  lashes  which  rested  upon 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

her  cheek,  saying,  as  he  contemplated  the  white  vision  of 
beauty  before  him: 

"How  lovely  you  are,  my  Marsa!  And  how  I  love 
you!" 

The  Prince  spoke  these  words  in  a  tone,  and  with 
a  look,  which  touched  the  deepest  depths  of  Marsa's 
heart. 

Then  they  exchanged  those  words,  full  of  emotion, 
which,  in  their  eternal  triteness,  are  like  music  in  the 
ears  of  those  who  love.  Every  one  had  withdrawn  to 
the  garden,  to  leave  them  alone  in  this  last,  furtive, 
happy  minute,  which  is  never  found  again,  and  which, 
on  the  threshold  of  the  unknown,  possesses  a  joy,  sad 
as  a  last  farewell,  yet  full  of  hope  as  the  rising  of  the 
sun. 

He  told  her  how  ardently  he  loved  her,  and  how  grate- 
ful he  was  to  her  for  having  consented,  in  her  youth  and 
beauty,  to  become  the  wife  of  a  quasi-exile,  who  still 
kept,  despite  his  efforts,  something  of  the  melancholy 
of  the  past. 

And  she,  with  an  outburst  of  gratitude,  devotion,  and 
love,  in  which  all  the  passion  of  her  nature  and  her  race 
vibrated,  said,  in  a  voice  which  trembled  with  unshed 
tears: 

"Do  not  say  that  I  give  you  my  life.  It  is  you  who 
make  of  a  girl  of  the  steppes  a  proud  and  honored  wife, 
who  asks  herself  why  all  this  happiness  has  come  to 
her."  Then,  nestling  close  to  Andras,  and  resting  her 
dark  head  upon  his  shoulder,  she  continued:  "We 
have  a  proverb,  you  remember,  which  says,  Life  is  a 
jemfest,  I  have  repeated  it  very  often  with  bitter  sao> 

['59}  ' 


JULES  CLARETIE 

ness.  But  now,  that  wicked  proverb  is  effaced  by  the 
refrain  of  our  old  song,  Life  is  a  chaplet  of  pearls." 

And  the  Tzigana,  lost  in  the  dream  which  was  now 
a  tangible  reality,  saying  nothing,  but  gazing  with  her 
beautiful  eyes,  now  moist,  into  the  face  of  Andras,  re- 
mained encircled  in  his  arms,  while  he  smiled  and 
whispered,  again  and  again,  "I  love  you!" 

All  the  rest  of  the  world  had  ceased  to  exist  for  these 
two  beings,  absorbed  in  each  other. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  BRIDAL  DAY 

'HE  little  Baroness  ran  into  the  room, 
laughing,  and  telling  them  how  late  it 
was;  and  Andras  and  Marsa, awakened 
to  reality,  followed  her  to  the  hall, 
where  Varhely,  Vogotzine,  Angelo 
Valla,  Paul  Jacquemin  and  other  guests 
were  assembled  as  a  sort  of  guard  of 
honor  to  the  bride  and  groom. 
Andras  and  the  Baroness,  with  Varhely,  immediately 
entered  the  Prince's  carriage ;  Vogotzine  taking  his  place 
in  the  coupe  with  Marsa.  Then  there  was  a  gay  crack- 
ling of  the  gravel,  a  flash  of  wheels  in  the  sunlight,  a 
rapid,  joyous  departure.  Clustered  beneath  the  trees 
in  the  ordinarily  quiet  avenues  of  Maisons,  the  crowd 
watched  the  cortege;  and  old  Vogotzine  good-humoredly 
displayed  his  epaulettes  and  crosses  for  the  admiration 
of  the  people  who  love  uniforms. 

As  she  descended  from  the  carriage,  Marsa  cast  a 
superstitious  glance  at  the  facade  of  the  church,  a 
humble  facade,  with  a  Gothic  porch  and  cheap  stained- 
glass  windows,  some  of  which  were  broken;  and  above 
a  plaster  tower  covered  with  ivy  and  surmounted  with  a 
roughly  carved  cross.  She  entered  the  church  almost 
trembling,  thinking  again  how  strange  was  this  fate 
ii  [  161  ] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

which  united,  before  a  village  altar,  a  Tzigana  and  a 
Magyar.  She  walked  up  the  aisle,  seeing  nothing,  but 
hearing  about  her  murmurs  of  admiration,  and  knelt 
down  beside  Andras,  upon  a  velvet  cushion,  near  which 
burned  a  tall  candle,  in  a  white  candlestick. 

The  little  church,  dimly  lighted  save  where  the  priest 
stood,  was  hushed  to  silence,  and  Marsa  felt  penetrated 
with  deep  emotion.  She  had  really  drunk  of  the  cup  of 
oblivion ;  she  was  another  woman,  or  rather  a  young  girl, 
with  all  a  young  girl's  purity  and  ignorance  of  evil.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  the  hated  past  was  a  bad  dream ;  one 
of  those  unhealthy  hallucinations  which  fly  away  at  the 
dawn  of  day. 

She  saw,  in  the  luminous  enclosure  of  the  altar,  the 
priest  in  his  white  stole,  and  the  choir  boys  in  their 
snowy  surplices.  The  waxen  candles  looked  like  stars 
against  the  white  hangings  of  the  chancel;  and  above 
the  altar,  a  sweet-faced  Madonna  looked  down  with 
sad  eyes  upon  the  man  and  woman  kneeling  before  her. 
Through  the  parti-colored  windows,  crossed  with  broad 
bands  of  red,  the  branches  of  the  lindens  swayed  in  the 
wind,  and  the  fluttering  tendrils  of  the  ivy  cast  strange, 
flickering  shadows  of  blue,  violet,  and  almost  sinister 
scarlet  upon  the  guests  seated  in  the  nave. 

Outside,  in  the  square  in  front  of  the  church,  the 
crowd  waited  the  end  of  the  ceremony.  Shopgirls  from 
the  Rue  de  1'Eglise,  and  laundresses  from  the  Rue  de 
Paris,  curiously  contemplated  the  equipages,  with  their 
stamping  horses,  and  the  coachmen,  erect  upon  their 
boxes,  motionless,  and  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor 
the  left.  Through  the  open  door  of  the  church,  at  the 

[162] 


//  seemed  to  her  thut  the  hated  past  Was  <, 
bad  dream. 

[From  an  Origin.     Drawing  fit/  Herman  Rountree.  • 


JULES  CLARE ! 

nhuh  united,  before  a  village  altai  gana  and  a 

he  walked  up  the  aisle,  seeing  nothing,  but 
ut  her  murmurs  of  adr  d  knelt 

Andra-  a  velvet  c  hich 

tall  candle   i^.  4  white  can- 
little  chi  ted  save 

stooo.  was  hush*  1  Marsa  fell  a  ted 

with  deep  emoti*  drunk  of  the  cup  of 

oblivion ;  shu  man,  or  rather  a  young  girl, 

with  all  a  }\  and  ignorance  of  evil.     It 

seemed  to  he  one- 

of  those  unh  i  the 

dawn  8f  *fift>«*  "k»VoA  ^  ^  ^  o\  V»m^  \\ 

..*«tta^;  W>  be  altar,  the 

priest  in  fii§«^.  '^K  in  their, 

snowy  '  •  J  like  stars 

chancel;  and  above 

the  nna  boked  down  with 

sad  Kneeling  before  her. 

Throug:  d  windows,  crossed  with  broad 

bands  of  rec ;  >f  the  lindens  swayed  in  the 

wind,  and  the  fluttering  tendrils  of  the  ivy  cast  strange, 
flickering  shadows  of  blue,  violet,  and  almost  sinister 
scarlet  upon  the  ed  in  the  nave. 

O'Msidc.  in  the  square  in  front  of  the  church,  the 

aited  the  end  of  the  ceremony.     Shopgirls  from 

the  PEglise,  and  laundresses  from  the  Rue  de 

Par;  contemplated  the  equi]  ith  their 

s,  and  the  coachmen,  ercrt  upon  their 

<nd  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor 

the  open  door  of  the  church,  at  the 

[162] 


PRINCE  2ILAH 

end  of  the  old  oak  arches,  could  be  seen  Marsa's  white, 
kneeling  figure,  and  beside  her  Prince  Zilah,  whose 
blond  head,  as  he  stood  gazing  down  upon  his  bride, 
towered  above  the  rest  of  the  party. 

The  music  of  the  organ,  now  tremulous  and  low,  now 
strong  and  deep,  caused  a  profound  silence  to  fall  upon 
the  square;  but,  as  the  last  note  died  away,  there  was  a 
great  scrambling  for  places  to  see  the  procession  come 
out. 

Above  the  mass  of  heads,  the  leaves  of  the  old  lindens 
rustled  with  a  murmur  which  recalled  that  of  the  sea; 
and  now  and  then  a  blossom  of  a  yellowish  white  would 
flutter  down,  which  the  girls  disputed,  holding  up  their 
hands  and  saying: 

"The  one  who  catches  it  will  have  a  husband  before 
the  year  is  out!" 

A  poor  old  blind  man,  cowering  upon  the  steps  of  the 
sanctuary,  was  murmuring  a  monotonous  prayer,  like 
the  plaint  of  a  night  bird. 

Yanski  Varhely  regarded  the  scene  with  curiosity,  as 
he  waited  for  the  end  of  the  ceremony.  Somewhat  op- 
pressed by  the  heavy  atmosphere  of  the  little  church, 
and  being  a  Huguenot  besides,  the  old  soldier  had  come 
out  into  the  open  air,  and  bared  his  head  to  the  fresh 
breeze  under  the  lindens. 

His  rugged  figure  had  at  first  a  little  awed  the  crowd ; 
but  they  soon  began  to  rattle  on  again  like  a  brook  over 
the  stones. 

Varhely  cast,  from  time  to  time,  a  glance  into  the  in- 
terior of  the  church.  Baroness  Dinati  was  now  taking 
up  the  collection  for  the  poor,  holding  the  long  pole  of 

[163] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

the  alms-box  in  her  little,  dimpled  hands,  and  bowing 
with  a  pretty  smile  as  the  coins  rattled  into  the  recep- 
tacle. 

Varhely,  after  a  casual  examination  of  the  ruins  of  an 
old  castle  which  formed  one  side  of  the  square,  was  about 
to  return  to  the  church,  when  a  domestic  in  livery  pushed 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  raising  himself  upon  his 
toes,  peered  into  the  church  as  if  seeking  some  one. 
After  a  moment  the  man  approached  Yanski,  and,  tak- 
ing off  his  hat,  asked,  respectfully: 

"Is  it  to  Monsieur  Varhely  that  I  have  the  honor  to 
speak?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Yanski,  a  little  surprised. 

"I  have  a  package  for  Prince  Andras  Zilah:  would 
Monsieur  have  the  kindness  to  take  charge  of  it,  and 
give  it  to  the  Prince?  I  beg  Monsieur's  pardon;  but  it 
is  very  important,  and  I  am  obliged  to  go  away  at  once. 
I  should  have  brought  it  to  Maisons  yesterday." 

As  he  spoke,  the  servant  drew  from  an  inside  pocket 
a  little  package  carefully  wrapped,  and  sealed  with  red 
sealing-wax. 

"Monsieur  will  excuse  me,"  he  said  again,  "but  it  is 
very  important." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Varhely,  rather  brusquely. 
"Who  sent  it?" 

"Count  Michel  Menko." 

Varhely  knew  very  well  (as  also  did  Andras),  that 
Michel  had  been  seriously  ill ;  otherwise,  he  would  have 
been  astonished  at  the  young  man's  absence  from  the 
wedding  of  the  Prince. 

He  thought  Michel  had  probably  sent  a  wedding- 
[164] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

present,  and  he  took  the  little  package,  twisting  it  me- 
chanically in  his  hands.  As  he  did  so,  he  gave  a  slight 
start  of  surprise;  it  seemed  as  if  the  package  contained 
letters. 

He  looked  at  the  superscription.  The  name  of  Prince 
Andras  Zilah  was  traced  in  clear,  firm  handwriting,  and, 
in  the  left-hand  corner,  Michel  Menko  had  written,  in 
Hungarian  characters:  "Very  important!  With  the  ex- 
pression of  my  excuses  and  my  sorrow"  And  below,  the 
signature  "Menko  Mihaly." 

The  domestic  was  still  standing  there,  hat  in  hand. 
"Monsieur  will  be  good  enough  to  pardon  me,"  he 
said;  "but,  in  the  midst  of  this  crowd,  I  could  not  per- 
haps reach  his  Excellency,  and  the  Count's  commands 
were  so  imperative  that— 

"Very  well,"  interrupted  Varhely.  "I  will  myself 
give  this  to  the  Prince  immediately." 

The  domestic  bowed,  uttered  his  thanks,  and  left 
Varhely  vaguely  uneasy  at  this  mysterious  package 
which  had  been  brought  there,  and  which  Menko  had 
addressed  to  the  Prince. 

With  the  expression  of  his  excuses  and  his  sorrow! 
Michel  doubtless  meant  that  he  was  sorry  not  to  be  able 
to  join  Andras' s  friends — he  who  was  one  of  the  most 
intimate  of  them,  and  whom  the  Prince  called  "my 
child."  Yes,  it  was  evidently  that.  But  why  this  sealed 
package?  and  what  did  it  contain?  Yanski  turned  it 
over  and  over  between  his  fingers,  which  itched  to  break 
the  wrapper,  and  find  out  what  was  within. 

He  wondered  if  there  were  really  any  necessity  to  give 
it  to  the  Prince.  But  why  should  he  not  ?  What  folly 

[165] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

to  think  that  any  disagreeable  news  could  come  from 
Michel  Menko!  The  young  man,  unable  to  come  him- 
self to  Maisons,  had  sent  his  congratulations  to  the 
Prince,  and  Zilah  would  be  glad  to  receive  them  from 
his  friend.  That  was  all.  There  was  no  possible 
trouble  in  all  this,  but  only  one  pleasure  the  more  to 
Andras. 

And  Varhely  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  nervous 
feeling  a  letter  received  under  odd  circumstances  or  an 
unexpected  despatch  sometimes  causes.  The  envelope 
alone,  of  some  letters,  sends  a  magnetic  thrill  through 
one  and  makes  one  tremble.  The  rough  soldier  was  not 
accustomed  to  such  weaknesses,  and  he  blamed  himself 
as  being  childish,  for  having  felt  that  instinctive  fear 
which  was  now  dissipated. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  turned  toward  the 
church. 

From  the  interior  came  the  sound  of  the  organ, 
mingled  with  the  murmur  of  the  guests  as  they  rose, 
ready  to  depart.  The  wedding  march  from  the  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  pealed  forth  majestically  as  the 
newly-married  pair  walked  slowly  down  the  aisle. 
Marsa  smiled  happily  at  this  music  of  Mendelssohn, 
which  she  had  played  so  often,  and  which  was  now 
singing  for  her  the  chant  of  happy  love.  She  saw  the 
sunshine  streaming  through  the  open  doorway,  and, 
dazzled  by  this  light  from  without,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  luminous  portal,  she  no  longer  perceived  the  dim 
shadows  of  the  church. 

Murmurs  of  admiration  greeted  her  as  she  appeared 
upon  the  threshold,  beaming  with  happiness.  The 

[166] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

crowd,  which  made  way  for  her,  gazed  upon  her  with 
fascinated  eyes.  The  door  of  Andras's  carriage  was 
open;  Marsa  entered  it,  and  Andras,  with  a  smile  of 
deep,  profound  content,  seated  himself  beside  her, 
whispering  tenderly  in  the  Tzigana's  ear  as  the  carriage 
drove  off: 

"Ah!  how  I  love  you!  my  beloved,  my  adored  Marsa! 
How  I  love  you,  and  how  happy  I  am!" 


1 167] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"THE  TZIGANA  is  THE  MOST  LOVED  OF  ALL!" 


chimes  rang  forth  a  merry  peal,  and 
Mendelssohn's  music  still  thundered 
its  triumphal  accents,  as  the  marriage 
guests  left  the  church. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  wedding,  really  a 
great  success!  The  bride,  the  decora- 
tions, the  good  peasants  and  the  pretty 
girls  —  everything  is  simply  perfect.  If 
I  ever  marry  again,"  laughed  the  Baroness,  "I  shall  be 
married  in  the  country." 

"  You  have  only  to  name  the  day,  Baroness,"  said  old 
Vogotzine,  inspired  to  a  little  gallantry. 

And  Jacquemin,  with  a  smile,  exclaimed,  in  Russian  : 
"What  a  charming  speech,  General,  and  so  original! 
I  will  make  a  note  of  it." 

The  carriages  rolled  away  toward  Marsa's  house 
through  the  broad  avenues,  turning  rapidly  around  the 
fountains  of  the  park,  whose  jets  of  water  laughed  as 
they  fell  and  threw  showers  of  spray  over  the  masses  of 
flowers.  Before  the  church,  the  children  disputed  for 
the  money  and  bonbons  Prince  Andras  had  ordered  to 
be  distributed.  In  Marsa's  large  drawing-rooms,  where 
glass  and  silver  sparkled  upon  the  snowy  cloth,  servants 
in  livery  awaited  the  return  of  the  wedding-party.  In  a 

[168] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

moment  there  was  an  assault,  General  Vogotzine  lead- 
ing the  column.  All  appetites  were  excited  by  the  drive 
in  the  fresh  air,  and  the  guests  did  honor  to  the  pates, 
salads,  and  cold  chicken,  accompanied  by  Leoville,  which 
Jacquemin  tasted  and  pronounced  drinkable. 

The  little  Baroness  was  ubiquitous,  laughing,  chatter- 
ing, enjoying  herself  to  her  heart's  content,  and  telling 
every  one  that  she  was  to  leave  that  very  evening  for 
Trouville,  with  trunks,  and  trunks,  and  trunks — a  host 
of  them!  But  then,  it  was  race- week,  you  know! 

With  her  eyeglasses  perched  upon  her  little  nose,  she 
stopped  before  a  statuette,  a  picture,  no  matter  what, 
exclaiming,  merrily: 

"Oh,  how  pretty  that  is!  How  pretty  it  is!  It  is  a 
Tanagra!  How  queer  those  Tanagras  are.  They 
prove  that  love  existed  in  antiquity,  don't  they,  Varhely  ? 
Oh!  I  forgot;  what  do  you  know  about  love?" 

At  last,  with  a  glass  of  champagne  in  her  hand,  she 
paused  before  a  portrait  of  Marsa,  a  strange,  powerful 
picture,  the  work  of  an  artist  who  knew  how  to  put  soul 
into  his  painting. 

"Ah!  this  is  superb!    Who  painted  it,  Marsa?" 

"Zichy,"  replied  Marsa, 

* '  Ah,  yes,  Zichy !  I  am  no  longer  astonished.  By  the 
way,  there  is  another  Hungarian  artist  who  paints  very 
well.  I  have  heard  of  him.  He  is  an  old  man;  I  don't 
exactly  remember  his  name,  something  like  Barabas." 

"Nicolas  de  Baratras,"  said  Varhely. 

"Yes,  that's  it.  It  seems  he  is  a  master.  But  your 
Zichy  pleases  me  infinitely.  He  has  caught  your  eyes 
and  expression  wonderfully;  it  is  exactly  like  you,  Prin- 


JULES  CLARETIE 

cess.  I  should  like  to  have  my  portrait  painted  by  him. 
His  first  name  is  Michel,  is  it  not?" 

She  examined  the  signature,  peering  through  her  eye- 
glass, close  to  the  canvas. 

"Yes,  I  knew  it  was.    Michel  Zichy!" 

This  name  of  "Michel!"  suddenly  pronounced,  sped 
like  an  arrow  through  Marsa's  heart.  She  closed  her 
eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  some  hateful  vision,  and  abruptly 
quitted  the  Baroness,  who  proceeded  to  analyze  Zichy's 
portrait  as  she  did  the  pictures  in  the  salon  on  varnishing 
day.  Marsa  went  toward  other  friends,  answering  their 
flatteries  with  smiles,  and  forcing  herself  to  talk  and 
forget. 

Andras,  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  where  Vogotzine's 
loud  laugh  alternated  with  the  little  cries  of  the  Baroness, 
felt  a  complex  sentiment :  he  wished  his  friends  to  enjoy 
themselves  and  yet  he  longed  to  be  alone  with  Marsa, 
and  to  take  her  away.  They  were  to  go  first  to  his  hotel 
in  Paris,  and  then  to  some  obscure  corner,  probably 
to  the  villa  of  Sainte-Adresse,  until  September,  when 
they  were  going  to  Venice,  and  from  there  to  Rome  for 
the  whiter. 

It  seemed  to  the  Prince  that  all  these  people  were  tak- 
ing away  from  him  a  part  of  his  life.  Marsa  belonged 
to  them,  as  she  went  from  one  to  another,  replying  to  the 
compliments  which  desperately  resembled  one  another, 
from  those  of  Angelo  Valla,  which  were  spoken  in  Ital- 
ian, to  those  of  little  Yamada,  the  Parisianized  Japanese. 
Andras  now  longed  for  the  solitude  of  the  preceding 
days;  and  Baroness  Dinati,  shaking  her  finger  at  him, 
"  ^ly  dear  Prince,  you  are  longing  to  see  us  go,  I 

t?7°| 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

know  you  are.  Oh!  don't  say  you  are  not!  I  am  sure 
of  it,  and  I  can  understand  it.  We  had  no  lunch  at  my 
marriage.  The  Baron  simply  carried  me  off  at  the  door 
of  the  church.  Carried  me  off!  How  romantic  that 
sounds!  It  suggests  an  elopement  with  a  coach  and 
four!  Have  no  fear,  though;  leave  it  to  me,  I  will  dis- 
perse your  guests!" 

She  flew  away  before  Zilah  could  answer;  and,  mur- 
muring a  word  in  the  ears  of  her  friends,  tapping  with 
her  little  hand  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  obstinate,  she 
gradually  cleared  the  rooms,  and  the  sound  of  the  de- 
parting carriages  was  soon  heard,  as  they  rolled  down 
the  avenue. 

Andras  and  Marsa  were  left  almost  alone;  Varhely 
still  remaining,  and  the  little  Baroness,  who  ran  up,  all 
rosy  and  out  of  breath,  to  the  Prince,  and  said,  gayly,  in 
her  laughing  voice: 

"Well!  What  do  you  say  to  that?  all  vanished  like 
smoke,  even  Jacquemin,  who  has  gone  back  by  train. 
The  game  of  descampativos ,  which  Marie  Antoinette 
loved  to  play  at  Trianon,  must  have  been  a  little  like  this. 
Aren't  you  going  to  thank  me?  Ah!  you  ingrate!" 

She  ran  and  embraced  Marsa,  pressing  her  cherry  lips 
to  the  Tzigana's  pale  face,  and  then  rapidly  disappeared 
in  a  mock  flight,  with  a  gay  little  laugh  and  a  tremen- 
dous rustle  of  petticoats. 

Of  all  his  friends,  Varhe'ly  was  the  one  of  whom  An- 
dras was  fondest ;  but  they  had  not  been  able  to  exchange 
a  single  word  since  the  morning.  Yanski  had  been 
right  to  remain  till  the  last:  it  was  his  hand  which 
the  Prince  wished  to  press  before  his  departure,  as  if 


JULES  CLARETIE 

Varhely  had  been  his  relative,  and  the  sole  surviving 
one. 

"Now,"  he  said  to  him,  "you  have  no  longer  only  a 
brother,  my  dear  Varhely;  you  have  also  a  sister  who 
loves  and  respects  you  as  I  love  and  respect  you 
myself." 

Yanski's  stern  face  worked  convulsively  with  an  emo- 
tion he  tried  to  conceal  beneath  an  apparent  roughness. 

"You  are  right  to  love  me  a  little,"  he  said,  brusquely, 
"because  I  am  very  fond  of  you — of  both  of  you,"  nod- 
ding his  head  toward  Marsa.  "But  no  respect,  please. 
That  makes  me  out  too  old." 

The  Tzigana,  taking  Vogotzine's  arm,  led  him  gently 
toward  the  door,  a  little  alarmed  at  the  purple  hue  of  the 
General's  cheeks  and  forehead.  "Come,  take  a  little 
fresh  air,"  she  said  to  the  old  soldier,  who  regarded  her 
with  round,  expressionless  eyes. 

As  they  disappeared  in  the  garden,  Varhely  drew  from 
his  pocket  the  little  package  given  to  him  by  Menko's 
valet. 

"Here  is  something  from  another  friend!  It  was 
brought  to  me  at  the  door  of  the  church." 

"Ah!  I  thought  that  Menko  would  send  me  some 
word  of  congratulation,"  said  Andras,  after  he  had 
read  upon  the  envelope  the  young  Count's  signature. 
"Thanks,  my  dear  Varhely." 

"Now,"  said  Yanski,  "may  happiness  attend  you, 
Andras!  I  hope  that  you  will  let  me  hear  from  you 
soon." 

Zilah  took  the  hand  which  VarheUy  extended,  and 
clasped  it  warmly  in  both  his  own. 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

Upon  the  steps  Varhely  found  Marsa,  who,  in  her 
turn,  shook  his  hand. 

"Au  revoir,  Count." 

"Au.  revoir,  Princess." 

She  smiled  at  Andras,  who  accompanied  Varhe*ly, 
and  who  held  in  his  hand  the  package  with  the  seals 
unbroken. 

"  Princess ! "  she  said.  "  That  is  a  title  by  which  every 
one  has  been  calling  me  for  the  last  hour;  but  it  gives 
me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  .hear  it  spoken  by  you,  my 
dear  Varh61y.  But,  Princess  or  not,  I  shall  always  be 
for  you  the  Tzigana,  who  will  play  for  you,  whenever 
you  wish  it,  the  airs  of  her  country — of  our  country!" 

There  was,  in  the  manner  in  which  she  spoke  these 
simple  words,  a  gentle  grace  which  evoked  in  the  mind 
of  the  old  patriot  memories  of  the  past  and  the  father- 
land. 

"The  Tzigana  is  the  most  charming  of  all!  The 
Tzigana  is  the  most  loved  of  all!"  he  said,  in  Hunga- 
rian, repeating  a  refrain  of  a  Magyar  song. 

With  a  quick,  almost  military  gesture,  he  saluted 
Andras  and  Marsa  as  they  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps, 
the  sun  casting  upon  them  dancing  reflections  through 
the  leaves  of  the  trees. 

The  Prince  and  Princess  responded  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand ;  and  General  Vogotzine,  who  was  seated  under  the 
shade  of  a  chestnut-tree,  with  his  coat  unbuttoned  and 
his  collar  open,  tried  in  vain  to  rise  to  his  feet  and  salute 
the  departure  of  the  last  guest. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A   DREAM   SHATTERED 

'HEY  were  alone  at  last;  free  to  exchange 
those  eternal  vows  which  they  had  just 
taken  before  the  altar  and  sealed  with  a 
long,  silent  pressure  when  their  hands 
were  united ;  alone  with  their  love,  the 
devoted  love  they  had  read  so  long 
in  each  other's  eyes,  and  which  had 
burned,  in  the  church,  beneath  Marsa's 
lowered  lids,  when  the  Prince  had  placed  upon  her  finger 
the  nuptial  ring. 

This  moment  of  happiness  and  solitude  after  all  the 
noise  and  excitement  was  indeed  a  blessed  one! 

Andras  had  placed  upon  the  piano  of  the  salon  Mi- 
chel Menko's  package,  and,  seated  upon  the  divan,  he 
held  both  Marsa's  hands  in  his,  as  she  stood  before  him. 
"My  best  wishes,  Princess!"  he  said.  "Princess! 
Princess  Zilah!  That  name  never  sounded  so  sweet  in 
my  ears  before!  My  wife!  My  dear  and  cherished 
wife!"  As  she  listened  to  the  music  of  the  voice  she 
loved,  Marsa  said  to  herself,  that  sweet  indeed  was  life, 
which,  after  so  many  trials,  still  had  in  reserve  for  her 
such  joys.  And  so  deep  was  her  happiness,  that  she 
wished  everything  could  end  now  in  a  beautiful  dream 
which  should  have  no  awakening, 

[nil 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"We  will  depart  for  Paris  whenever  you  like,"  said 
the  Prince. 

"Yes,"  she  exclaimed,  sinking  to  his  feet,  and  throw- 
ing her  arms  about  his  neck  as  he  bent  over  her,  "let  us 
leave  this  house ;  take  me  away,  take  me  away,  and  let 
a  new  life  begin  for  me,  the  life  I  have  longed  for  with 
you  and  your  love!" 

There  was  something  like  terror  in  her  words,  and  in 
the  way  she  clung  to  this  man  who  was  her  hero.  When 
she  said  "Let  us  leave  this  house,"  she  thought,  with 
a  shudder,  of  all  her  cruel  suffering,  of  all  that  she  hated 
and  which  had  weighed  upon  her  like  a  nightmare. 
She  thirsted  for  a  different  air,  where  no  phantom  of 
the  past  could  pursue  her,  where  she  should  feel  free, 
where  her  life  should  belong  entirely  to  him. 

"I  will  go  and  take  off  this  gown,"  she  murmured, 
rising,  "and  we  will  run  away  like  two  eloping  lovers." 

"Take  off  that  gown?  Why?  It  would  be  such  a 
pity!  You  are  so  lovely  as  you  are!" 

"Well,"  said  Marsa,  glancing  down  upon  him  with 
an  almost  mutinous  smile,  which  lent  a  peculiar  charm 
to  her  beauty,  "I  will  not  change  this  white  gown,  then; 
a  mantle  thrown  over  it  will  do.  And  you  will  take  your 
wife  in  her  bridal  dress  to  Paris,  my  Prince,  my  hero — 
my  husband!" 

He  rose,  threw  his  arms  about  her,  and,  holding  her 
close  to  his  heart,  pressed  one  long,  silent  kiss  upon  the 
exquisite  lips  of  his  beautiful  Tzigana. 

She  gently  disengaged  herself  from  his  embrace,  with 
a  shivering  sigh;  and,  going  slowly  toward  the  door, 
she  twned,  and  threw  him  a  kiss,  saying; 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"I  will  come  back  soon,  my  Andras!" 

And,  although  wishing  to  go  for  her  mantle,  never- 
theless she  still  stood  there,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  Prince  and  her  mouth  sweetly  tremulous  with  a 
passion  of  feeling,  as  if  she  could  not  tear  herself 
away. 

The  piano  upon  which  Andras  had  cast  the  package 
given  him  by  Varhe'ly  was  there  between  them;  and 
the  Prince  advanced  a  step  or  two,  leaning  his  hand 
upon  the  ebony  cover.  As  Marsa  approached  for  a  last 
embrace  before  disappearing  on  her  errand,  her  glance 
fell  mechanically  upon  the  small  package  sealed  with 
red  wax ;  and,  as  she  read,  in  the  handwriting  she  knew 
so  well,  the  address  of  the  Prince  and  the  signature  of 
Michel  Menko,  she  raised  her  eyes  violently  to  the  face 
of  Prince  Zilah,  as  if  to  see  if  this  were  not  a  trap ;  if,  in 
placing  this  envelope  within  her  view,  he  were  not  try- 
ing to  prove  her.  There  was  in  her  look  fright,  sudden, 
instinctive  fright,  a  fright  which  turned  her  very  lips  to 
ashes;  and  she  recoiled,  her  eyes  returning  fascinated 
to  the  package,  while  Andras,  surprised  at  the  unex- 
pected expression  of  the  Tzigana's  convulsed  features, 
exclaimed,  in  alarm: 

"What  is  it,  Marsa ?   What  is  the  matter ? " 

"I— I " 

She  tried  to  smile. 

"Nothing— I  do  not  know!    I " 

She  made  a  desperate  effort  to  look  him  in  the  face; 
but  she  could  not  remove  her  eyes  from  that  sealed 
package  bearing  the  name  Menko. 

Ah!  that  Michel!  She  had  forgotten  him!  Miser- 
[176] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

able  wretch!    He  returned,  he  threatened  her,  he  was 
about  to  avenge  himself :  she  was  sure  of  it ! 

That  paper  contained  something  horrible.  What 
could  Michel  Menko  have  to  say  to  Prince  Andras, 
writing  him  at  such  an  hour,  except  to  tell  him  that  the 
wretched  woman  he  had  married  was  branded  with 
infamy  ? 

She  shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  steadying  herself 
against  the  piano,  her  lips  trembling  nervously. 

"I  assure  you,  Marsa — "  began  the  Prince,  taking 
her  hands.  "Your  hands  are  cold.  Are  you  ill?" 

His  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  Marsa' s,  which 
were  still  riveted  upon  the  piano  with  a  dumb  look  of 
unutterable  agony. 

He  instantly  seized  the  sealed  package,  and,  holding 
it  up,  exclaimed: 

"One  would  think  that  it  was  this  which  troubled  you ! " 

"O  Prince!  I  swear  to  you! " 

"Prince?" 

He  repeated  in  amazement  this  title  which  she  sud- 
denly gave  him;  she,  who  called  him  Andras,  as  he 
called  her  Marsa.  Prince  ?  He  also,  in  his  turn,  felt  a 
singular  sensation  of  fright,  wondering  what  that  pack- 
age contained,  and  if  Marsa's  fate  and  his  own  were  not 
connected  with  some  unknown  thing  within  it. 

"Let  us  see,"  he  said,  abruptly  breaking  the  seals, 
"what  this  is." 

Rapidly,  and  as  if  impelled,  despite  herself,  Marsa 
caught  the  wrist  of  her  husband  in  her  icy  hand,  and, 
terrified,  supplicating,  she  cried,  in  a  wild,  broker 
voice : 

12  [177] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"No,  no,  I  implore  you!  No!  Do  not  read  it!  Do 
not  read  it!" 

He  contemplated  her  coldly,  and,  forcing  himself  to 
be  calm,  asked: 

"What  does  this  parcel  of  Michel  Menko's  con- 
tain?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  gasped  Marsa.  "But  do  not  read 
it!  In  the  name  of  the  Virgin"  (the  sacred  adjuration 
of  the  Hungarians  occurring  to  her  mind,  in  the  midst 
of  her  agony),  "do  not  read  it!" 

"But  you  must  be  aware,  Princess,"  returned  An- 
dras,  "that  you  are  taking  the  very  means  to  force  me 
to  read  it." 

She  shivered  and  moaned,  there  was  such  a  change 
in  the  way  Andras  pronounced  this  word,  which  he  had 
spoken  a  moment  before  in  tones  so  loving  and  caress- 
ing— Princess. 

Now  the  word  threatened  her. 

"  Listen !  I  am  about  to  tell  you :  I  wished — Ah !  My 
God !  My  God !  Unhappy  woman  that  I  am !  Do  not 
read,  do  not  read!" 

Andras,  who  had  turned  very  pale,  gently  removed 
her  grasp  from  the  package,  and  said,  very  slowly  and 
gravely,  but  with  a  tenderness  in  which  hope  still  ap- 
peared : 

"Come,  Marsa,  let  us  see;  what  do  you  wish  me  to 
think  ?  Why  do  you  wish  me  not  to  read  these  letters  ? 
for  letters  they  doubtless  are.  What  have  letters  sent 
me  by  Count  Menko  to  do  with  you  ?  You  do  not  wish 
me  to  read  them?" 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then,  while  Marsa's  eyes 
[178] 


PRINCE  ZiLAH 

implored  him  with  the  mute  prayer  of  a  person  con- 
demned to  death  by  the  executioner,  he  repeated : 

"You  do  not  wish  me  to  read  them?  Well,  so  be  it; 
I  will  not  read  them,  but  upon  one  condition:  you 
must  swear  to  me,  understand,  swear  to 'me,  that  your 
name  is  not  traced  in  these  letters,  and  that  Michel 
Menko  has  nothing  in  common  with  the  Princess 
Zilah." 

She  listened,  she  heard  him;  but  Andras  wondered 
whether  she  understood,  she  stood  so  still  and  motion- 
less, as  if  stupefied  by  the  shock  of  a  moral  tempest. 

"There  is,  I  am  certain,"  he  continued  in  the  same 
calm,  slow  voice,  "there  is  within  this  envelope  some 
lie,  some  plot.  I  will  not  even  know  what  it  is.  I  will 
not  ask  you  a  single  question,  and  I  will  throw  these 
letters,  unread,  into  the  fire;  but  swear  to  me,  that, 
whatever  this  Menko,  or  any  other,  may  write  to  me, 
whatever  any  one  may  say,  is  an  infamy  and  a  calumny. 
Swear  that,  Marsa." 

"Swear  it,  swear  again?  Swear  always,  then?  Oath 
upon  oath?  Ah!  it  is  too  much!"  she  cried,  her  torpor 
suddenly  breaking  into  an  explosion  of  sobs  and  cries. 
"No!  not  another  lie,  not  one!  Monsieur,  I  am  a 
wretch,  a  miserable  wroman!  Strike  me!  Lash  me,  as 
I  lash  my  dogs!  I  have  deceived  you!  Despise  me! 
Hate  me!  I  am  unworthy  even  of  pity!  The  man 
whose  letters  you  hold  revenges  himself,  and  stabs  me, 
has  been — my  lover ! ' ' 

"Michel!" 

"The  most  cowardly,  the  vilest  being  in  the  world! 
If  he  hated  me,  he  might  have  killed  me ;  he  might  have 


JULES  CLARETIE 

torn  off  my  veil  just  now,  and  struck  me  across  the  lips. 
But  to  do  this,  to  do  this!  To  attack  you,  you,  you! 
Ah!  miserable  dog;  fit  only  to  be  stoned  to  death! 
Judas!  Liar  and  coward!  Would  to  heaven  I  had 
planted  a  knife  in  his  heart!" 

"Ah!  My  God!"  murmured  the  Prince,  as  if  stabbed 
himself. 

At  this  cry  of  bitter  agony  from  Andras  Zilah, 
Marsa's  imprecations  ceased;  and  she  threw  herself 
madly  at  his  feet;  while  he  stood  erect  and  pale — her 
judge. 

She  lay  there,  a  mass  of  white  satin  and  lace,  her 
loosened  hair  falling  upon  the  carpet,  where  the  pale 
bridal  flowers  withered  beneath  her  husband's  heel; 
and  Zilah,  motionless,  his  glance  wandering  from  the 
prostrate  woman  to  the  package  of  letters  which  burned 
his  fingers,  seemed  ready  to  strike,  with  these  proofs  of 
her  infamy,  the  distracted  Tzigana,  a  wolf  to  threaten, 
a  slave  to  supplicate. 

Suddenly  he  leaned  over,  seized  her  by  the  wrists, 
and  raised  her  almost  roughly. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  in  low,  quivering  tones, 
"that  the  lowest  of  women  is  less  culpable  than  you? 
Ten  times,  a  hundred  times,  less  culpable!  Do  you 
know  that  I  have  the  right  to  kill  you?" 

"Ah!  that,  yes!  Do  it!  do  it!  do  it!"  she  cried, 
with  the  smile  of  a  mad  woman. 

He  pushed  her  slowly  from  him. 

"Why  have  you  committed  this  infamy?  It  was  not 
for  my  fortune;  you  are  rich." 

Marsa  moaned,  humiliated  to  the  dust  by  this  cold 
[180] 


PRINCE  ZILAS 

contempt.  She  would  have  preferred  brutal  anger,  any- 
thing, to  this. 

"Ah!  your  fortune!"  she  said,  finding  a  last  excuse 
for  herself  out  of  the  depth  of  her  humiliation,  which 
had  now  become  eternal;  "it  was  not  that,  nor  your 
name,  nor  your  title  that  I  wished:  it  was  your 
love!" 

The  heart  of  the  Prince  seemed  wrung  in  a  vise  as 
this  word  fell  from  those  lips,  once  adored,  nay,  stOl 
adored,  soiled  as  they  were. 

"My  love!" 

"Yes,  your  love,  your  love  alone!  I  would  have  con- 
fessed all,  been  your  mistress,  your  slave,  your  thing,  if  I 
I  had  not  feared  to  lose  you,  to  see  myself  abased  in  the 
eyes  of  you,  whom  I  adored!  I  was  afraid,  afraid  of 
seeing  you  fly  from  me — yes,  that  was  my  crime !  It  is 
infamous,  ah !  I  know  it ;  but  I  thought  only  of  keeping 
you,  you  alone;  you,  my  admiration,  my  hero,  my  life, 
rny  god !  I  deserve  to  be  punished ;  yes,  yes,  I  deserve 
it — But  those  letters — those  letters  which  you  would 
have  cast  into  the  fire  if  I  had  not  revealed  the  secret  of 
my  life — you  told  me  so  yourself — I  might  have  sworn 
what  you  asked,  and  you  would  have  believed  me — I 
might  have  done  so;  but  no,  it  would  have  been  too 
vile,  too  cowardly!  Ah!  kill  me!  That  is  what  I  de- 
serve, that  is  what 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  cried,  interrupting  her- 
seif,  her  eyes  dilated  with  fear,  as  she  saw  that  Zilah, 
without  answering,  was  moving  toward  the  door. 

She  forgot  that  she  no  longer  had  the  right  to  ques- 
tion ;  she  only  felt,  that,  once  gone,  she  would  never  see 

[181] 


him  again.  Ah!  a  thousand  times  a  blow  with  a  knife 
rather  than  that !  Was  this  the  way  the  day,  which  be- 
gan so  brightly,  was  to  end  ? 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"What  does  that  matter  to  you?" 

"True!  I  beg  your  pardon.  At  least — at  least, 
Monsieur,  one  word,  I  implore.  What  are  your  com- 
mands ?  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  There  must  be 
laws  to  punish  those  who  have  done  what  I  have  done! 
Shall  I  accuse  myself,  give  myself  up  to  justice?  Ah! 
speak  to  me!  speak  to  me!" 

"Live  with  Michel  Menko,  if  he  is  still  alive  after  I 
have  met  him!"  responded  Andras,  in  hard,  metallic 
tones,  waving  back  the  unhappy  woman  who  threw 
herself  on  her  knees,  her  arms  outstretched  toward  him. 

The  door  closed  behind  him.  For  a  moment  she 
gazed  after  him  with  haggard  eyes:  and  then,  dragging 
herself,  her  bridal  robes  trailing  behind  her,  to  the  door, 
she  tried  to  call  after  him,  to  detain  the  man  whom  she 
adored,  and  who  was  flying  from  her;  but  her  voice 
failed  her,  and,  with  one  wild,  inarticulate  cry,  she  fell 
forward  on  her  face,  with  a  horrible  realization  of  the 
immense  void  which  filled  the  house,  this  morning  gay 
and  joyous,  now  silent  as  a  tomb. 

And  while  the  Prince,  in  the  carriage  which  bore  him 
away,  read  the  letters  in  which  Marsa  spoke  of  her  love 
for  another,  and  that  other  the  man  whom  he  called 
"my  child;"  while  he  paused  in  this  agonizing  reading 
to  ask  himself  if  it  were  true,  if  such  a  sudden  annihila- 
tion of  his  happiness  were  possible,  if  so  many  misfor- 
tunes could  happen  in  such  a  few  hours;  while  he 

[182] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

watched  the  houses  and  trees  revolve  slowly  by  him, 
and  feared  that  he  was  going  mad — Marsa's  servants 
ate  the  remnants  of  the  lunch,  and  drank  what  was  left 
of  the  champagne  to  the  health  of  the  Prince  and  Prin- 
cess Zilah. 


CTHE   WORLD   HOLDS   BUT   ONE   FAIR  MAIDEN 

[ARIS,  whose  everyday  gossip  has  usu- 
ally the  keenness  and  eagerness  of  the 
tattle  of  small  villages,  preserves  at 
times,  upon  certain  serious  subjects, 
a  silence  which  might  be  believed  to 
be  generous.  Whether  it  is  from  ignor- 
ance or  from  respect,  at  all  events  it 
has  little  to  say.  There  are  vague 
suspicions  of  the  truth,  surmises  are  made,  but  nothing 
is  affirmed ;  and  this  sort  of  abdication  of  public  malig- 
nity is  the  most  complete  homage  that  can  be  rendered 
either  to  character  or  talent. 

The  circle  of  foreigners  in  Paris,  that  contrasted  so- 
ciety which  circled  and  chattered  in  the  salon  of  the 
Baroness  Dinati,  could  not,  of  necessity,  be  ignorant 
that  the  Princess  Zilah,  since  the  wedding  which  had 
attracted  to  Maisons-Lafitte  a  large  part  of  the  fash- 
ionable world,  had  not  left  her  house,  while  Prince  An- 
dras  had  returned  to  Paris  alone. 

There  were  low-spoken  rumors  of  all  sorts.  It  was 
said  that  Marsa  had  been  attacked  by  an  hereditary 
nervous  malady;  and  in  proof  of  this  were  cited  the 
visits  made  at  Maisons-Lafitte  by  Dr.  Fargeas,  the  fa- 
mous physician  of  Salpetriere,  who  had  been  sum- 

[184] 


moned  in  consultation  with  Dr.  Villandry.  These  two 
men,  both  celebrated  in  their  profession,  had  been 
called  in  by  Vogotzine,  upon  the  advice  of  Yanski 
Varhely,  who  was  more  Parisian  and  better  informed 
than  the  General. 

Vogotzine  was  dreadfully  uneasy,  and  his  brain 
seemed  ready  to  burst  with  the  responsibility  thrust 
upon  him.  Since  the  terrible  day  of  the  marriage — 
Vogotzine  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  anger  and  amaze- 
ment when  he  uttered  this  word  marriage — Marsa  had 
not  recovered  from  a  sort  of  frightened  stupor;  and  the 
General,  terrified  at  his  niece's  condition,  was  really 
afraid  of  going  insane  himself. 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!"  he  said,  "all  this  is  deplor- 
ably sad." 

After  the  terrible  overthrow  of  all  her  hopes,  Marsa 
was  seized  with  a  fever,  and  she  lay  upon  her  bed  in  a 
frightful  delirium,  which  entirely  took  away  the  little 
sense  poor  old  Vogotzine  had  left  Understanding 
nothing  of  the  reason  of  Zilah's  disappearance,  the  Gen- 
eral listened  in  childish  alarm  to  Marsa,  wildly  implor- 
ing mercy  and  pity  of  some  invisible  person.  The  un- 
happy old  man  would  have  faced  a  battalion  of  honveds 
or  a  charge  of  bashi-bazouks  rather  than  remain  there 
in  the  solitary  house,  with  the  delirious  girl  whose  sobs 
and  despairing  appeals  made  the  tears  stream  down  the 
face  of  this  soldier,  whose  brain  was  now  weakened  by 
drink,  but  who  had  once  contemplated  with  a  dry  eye, 
whole  ditches  full  of  corpses,  which  some  priest,  dressed 
in  mourning,  blessed  in  one  mass. 

Vogotzine  hastened  to  Paris,  and  questioned  Andras; 


JULES  CLARETIE 

but  the  Prince  answered  him  in  a  way  that  permitted  of 
no  further  conversation  upon  the  subject. 

"My  personal  affairs  concern  myself  alone." 

The  General  had  not  energy  enough  to  demand  an 
explanation;  and  he  bowed,  saying  that  it  was  certainly 
not  his  business  to  interfere;  but  he  noticed  that  Zilah 
turned  very  pale  when  he  told  him  that  it  would  be  a 
miracle  if  Marsa  recovered  from  the  fever. 

" It  is  pitiful!"  he  said. 

Zilah  cast  a  strange  look  at  him,  severe  and  yet 
terrified. 

Vogotzine  said  no  more ;  but  he  went  at  once  to  Dr. 
Fargeas,  and  asked  him  to  come  as  soon  as  possible  to 
Maisons-Lafitte. 

The  doctor's  coupe  in  a  few  hours  stopped  before  the 
gate  through  which  so  short  a  time  ago  the  gay  marriage 
cortege  had  passed,  and  Vogotzine  ushered  him  into  the 
little  salon  from  which  Marsa  had  once  driven  Menko. 

Then  the  General  sent  for  Mademoiselle — or,  rather, 
Madame,  as  he  corrected  himself  with  a  shrug  of  his 
shoulders.  But  suddenly  he  became  very  serious  as  he 
saw  upon  the  threshold  Marsa,  whose  fever  had  tempo- 
rarily left  her,  and  who  could  now  manage  to  drag  her- 
self along,  pale  and  wan,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  her 
maid. 

Dr.  Fargeas  cast  a  keen  glance  at  the  girl,  whose 
eyes,  burning  with  inward  fire,  alone  seemed  to  be  liv- 
ing. 

"Madame,"  said  the  doctor,  quietly,  when  the  Gen- 
eral had  made  a  sign  to  his  niece  to  listen  to  the  stran- 
ger, "General  Vogotzine  has  told  me  that  you  were  suf- 

[186] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

fering.  I  am  a  physician.  Will  you  do  me  the  honor 
and  the  kindness  to  answer  my  questions?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  General,  "do,  my  dear  Marsa,  to 
please  me." 

She  stood  erect,  not  a  muscle  of  her  face  moving; 
and,  without  replying,  she  looked  steadily  into  the  doc- 
tor's eyes.  In  her  turn,  she  was  studying  him.  It  was 
like  a  defiance  before  a  duel. 

Then  she  said  suddenly,  turning  to  Vogotzine : 

"Why  have  you  brought  a  physician?    I  am  not  ill." 

Her  voice  was  clear,  but  low  and  sad,  and  it  was  an 
evident  effort  for  her  to  speak. 

"No,  you  are  not  ill,  my  dear  child ;  but  I  don't  know 
— I  don't  understand — you  make  me  a  little  uneasy,  a 
very  little.  You  know  if  I,  your  old  uncle,  worried  you 
even  a  little,  you  would  not  feel  just  right  about  it, 
would  you  now?" 

With  which  rather  incoherent  speech,  he  tried  to 
force  a  smile;  but  Marsa,  taking  no  notice  of  him, 
turned  slowly  to  the  doctor,  who  had  not  removed  his 
eyes  from  her  face. 

"Well,"  she  said,  dryly,  "what  do  you  want?  What 
do  you  wish  to  ask  me  ?  What  shall  I  tell  you  ?  Who 
requested  you  to  come  here?" 

Vogotzine  made  a  sign  to  the  maid  to  leave  the  room. 

"I  told  you,  I  have  come  at  the  General's  request," 
said  Fargeas,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  toward  Vogot- 
zine. 

Marsa  only  replied:  "Ah!"  But  it  seemed  to  the 
doctor  that  there  was  a  world  of  disappointment  and 
despair  expressed  in  this  one  ejaculation. 


JULES  CLARETIE 

Then  she  suddenly  became  rigid,  and  lapsed  into  one 
of  those  stupors  which  had  succeeded  the  days  of  delir- 
ium, and  had  frightened  Vogotzine  so  much. 

"There!  There!  Look  at  her!"  exclaimed  the  old 
man. 

Fargeas,  without  listening  to  the  General,  approached 
Marsa,  and  placed  her  in  a  chair  near  the  window.  He 
looked  in  her  eyes,  and  placed  his  hand  upon  her  burn- 
ing forehead ;  but  Marsa  made  no  movement. 

"Are  you  in  pain?"  he  asked,  gently. 

The  young  girl,  who  a  moment  before  had  asked 
questions  and  still  seemed  interested  a  little  in  life, 
stirred  uneasily,  and  murmured,  in  an  odd,  singing 
voice : 

"I  do  not  know!" 

"Did  you  sleep  last  night?" 

"I  do  not  know!" 

"How  old  are  you?"  asked  Fargeas,  to  test  her  men- 
tal condition. 

"I  do  not  know!" 

The  physician's  eyes  sought  those  of  the  General.  Vo- 
gotzine, his  face  crimson,  stood  by  the  chair,  his  little, 
round  eyes  blinking  with  emotion  at  each  of  these 
mournful,  musical  responses. 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  the  doctor,  slowly. 

She  raised  her  dark,  sad  eyes,  and  seemed  to  be  seek- 
ing what  to  reply;  then,  wearily  letting  her  head  fall 
backward,  she  answered,  as  before: 

"I  do  not  know!" 

Vogotzine,  who  had  become  purple,  seized  the  doc- 
tor's arm  convulsively. 

[188] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"She  no  longer  knows  even  her  own  name!" 

"It  will  be  only  temporary,  I  hope,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  But  in  her  present  state,  she  needs  the  closest  care  and 
attention." 

"I  have  never  seen  her  like  this  before,  never  since — 
since  the  first  day,"  exclaimed  the  General,  in  alarm 
and  excitement.  "She  tried  to  kill  herself  then;  but 
afterward  she  seemed  more  reasonable,  as  you  saw  just 
now.  When  she  asked  you  who  sent  you,  I  thought: 
Ah !  at  last  she  is  interested  in  something.  But  now  it 
is  worse  than  ever.  Oh!  this  is  lively  for  me,  devilish 
lively!" 

Fargeas  took  between  his  thumb  and  finger  the  deli- 
cate skin  of  the  Tzigana,  and  pinched  her  on  the  neck, 
below  the  ear.  Marsa  did  not  stir. 

"There  is  no  feeling  here,"  said  the  doctor;  "I  could 
prick  it  with  a  pin  without  causing  any  sensation  of 
pain."  Then,  again  placing  his  hand  upon  Marsa's 
forehead,  he  tried  to  rouse  some  memory  in  the  dor- 
mant brain : 

"  Come,  Madame,  some  one  is  waiting  for  you.  Your 
uncle — your  uncle  wishes  you  to  play  for  him  upon  the 
piano !  Your  uncle !  The  piano ! ' ' 

"  The  World  holds  but  One  Fair  Maiden!"  hummed 
Vogotzine,  trying  to  give,  in  his  husky  voice,  the  melody 
of  the  song  the  Tzigana  was  so  fond  of. 

Mechanically,  Marsa  repeated,  as  if  spelling  the 
word:  "The  piano!  piano!"  and  then,  in  peculiar,  mel- 
odious accents,  she  again  uttered  her  mournful:  "I 
do  not  know!" 

This  time  old  Vogotzine  felt  as  if  he  were  strangling; 
[189] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

and  the  doctor,  full  of  pity,  gazed  sadly  down  at  the 
exquisitely  beautiful  girl,  with  her  haggard,  dark  eyes, 
and  her  waxen  skin,  sitting  there  like  a  marble  statue 
of  despair. 

"Give  her  some  bouillon,"  said  Fargeas.  "She  will 
probably  refuse  it  in  her  present  condition;  but  try. 
She  can  be  cured,"  he  added;  "but  she  must  be  taken 
away  from  her  present  surroundings.  Solitude  is  nec- 
essary, not  this  here,  but— 

"But?"  asked  Vogotzine,  as  the  doctor  paused. 

"But,  perhaps,  that  of  an  asylum.  Poor  woman!" 
turning  again  to  Marsa,  who  had  not  stirred.  "How 
beautiful  she  is!" 

The  doctor,  greatly  touched,  despite  his  professional 
indifference,  left  the  villa,  the  General  accompanying 
him  to  the  gate.  It  was  decided  that  he  should  return 
the  next  day  with  Villandry  and  arrange  for  the  trans- 
portation of  the  invalid  to  Dr.  Sims's  establishment 
at  Vaugirard.  In  a  new  place  her  stupor  might  disap- 
pear, and  her  mind  be  roused  from  its  torpor;  but  a 
constant  surveillance  was  necessary.  Some  pretext 
must  be  found  to  induce  Marsa  to  enter  a  carriage ;  but 
once  at  Vaugirard,  the  doctor  gave  the  General  his  word 
that  she  should  be  watched  and  taken  care  of  with  the 
utmost  devotion. 

Vogotzine  felt  the  blood  throb  in  his  temples  as  he 
listened  to  the  doctor's  decision.  The  establishment  at 
Vaugirard!  His  niece,  the  daughter  of  Prince  Tchere- 
teff ,  and  the  wife  of  Prince  Zilah,  in  an  insane  asylum ! 

But  he  himself  had  not  the  right  to  dispose  of  Marsa's 
liberty;  the  consent  of  the  Prince  was  necessary,  It 


was  in  vain  for  Andras  to  refuse  to  have  his  life  dis- 
turbed; it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  find  out  from 
him  what  should  be  done  with  Marsa,  who  was  his  wife 
and  Princess  Zilah. 

The  General  also  felt  that  he  was  incapable  of  under- 
standing anything,  ignorant  as  he  was  of  the  reasons  of 
the  rupture,  of  Zilah' s  anger  against  the  Tzigana,  and 
of  the  young  girl's  terrible  stupor;  and,  as  he  drank  his 
cherry  cordial  or  his  brandy,  wondered  if  he  too  were  in- 
sane, as  he  repeated,  like  his  niece: 

"I  do  not  know!    I  do  not  know!" 

He  felt  obliged,  however,  to  go  and  tell  the  Prince  of 
the  opinion  of  the  illustrious  physician  of  Salpetriere. 

Then  he  asked  Zilah: 

"What  is  your  decision?" 

"General,"  replied  Andras,  "whatever  you  choose  to 
do  is  right.  But,  once  for  all,  'remember  that  I  wish 
henceforth  to  live  alone,  entirely  alone,  and  speak  to 
me  neither  of  the  future  nor  of  the  past,  which  is  cruel, 
nor  of  the  present,  which  is  hopeless.  I  have  deter- 
mined— 

"What?" 

"To  live  hereafter  an  absolutely  selfish  life!" 

"That  will  change  you,"  returned  the  General,  in 
amazement. 

"And  will  console  me,"  added  Andras. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  LITTLE  PARISIAN  ROMANCE 


very  evening  of  the  day  when  the 
package  of  letters  had  killed  in  Andras 
all  happiness  and  all  faith,  the  Hun- 
garian prince  presented  himself  in  the 
Rue  d'Aumale,  to  seek  Michel  Menko. 
Menko!  That  boy  whom  he  had 
loved  almost  as  a  brother,  that  man  for 
whom  he  had  hoped  a  glorious  future, 
Michel,  Michel  Menko,  had  betrayed  him,  and  struck 
him  with  the  perfidy  of  a  coward.  Yes,  at  the  door 
of  the  church,  when  it  was  too  late,  or  rather,  at  a  time 
when  the  blow  would  be  surer  and  the  wound  more 
deadly  —  then  Menko  had  said  to  him:  "My  dear 
Prince,  the  woman  whom  you  love,  the  woman  whom 
you  have  married,  has  been  my  mistress.  Here,  read, 
see  how  she  loved  me!" 

Had  Michel  been  before  him,  Andras  would  have 
seized  the  young  man  by  the  throat,  and  strangled  him 
on  the  spot;  but,  when  he  reached  the  Rue  d'Aumale, 
he  did  not  find  Menko. 

"The  Count  left  town  yesterday,"  said  the  servant,  in 
answer  to  his  question. 

'  '  Yesterday  !    Where  has  he  gone  ?  '  ' 
"The  Count  must  have  taken  the  steamer  to-day  at 
[192] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

Havre  for  New  York.  The  Count  did  not  tell  us  ex- 
actly where  he  was  going,  however,  but  to  America, 
somewhere.  We  only  know,  the  coachman  Pierre,  and 
myself,  that  the  Count  will  not  return  again  to  Paris. 
We  are  still  in  his  service,  however,  and  are  to  await 
his  orders." 

Hesitating  a  little,  the  servant  added : 

"Have  I  not  the  honor  to  speak  to  Prince  Zilah?" 

"Why?"  asked  Andras. 

The  valet  replied  with  a  humble  but  very  sincere 
air: 

"Because,  if  Monseigneur  should  hear  from  the 
Count,  and  there  is  any  question  of  the  package  which 
I  took  to  Maisons-Lafitte  this  morning  for  Monseig- 
neur  " 

"Well?"  said  Andras. 

"Monseigneur  would  greatly  oblige  me  if  he  would 
not  let  the  Count  know  that  I  did  not  fulfil  his  orders 
last  evening." 

' '  Last  evening  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Explain  your- 
self!"  said  the  Prince,  sternly. 

"When  he  left  yesterday,  the  Count  expressly  ordered 
me  to  take  the  package  to  Monseigneur  that  very  even- 
ing. I  beg  Monseigneur's  pardon;  but  I  had  an  invi- 
tation to  a  wedding,  and  I  did  not  carry  out  the  Count's 
instructions  until  this  morning.  But,  as  Monseigneur 
was  not  at  home,  I  took  the  train  to  Maisons-Lafitte. 
I  hope  that  I  did  not  arrive  too  late.  The  Count  was 
very  particular  about  it,  and  I  should  be  very  sorry  if 
my  negligence  has  done  any  harm." 

Andras  listened,  gazing  intently  upon  the  face  of  the 
13 


JULES  CLARETIE 

servant,  who  was  a  little  discountenanced  by  this  silent 
inquisition. 

"So  Count  Menko  wished  the  package  to  be  deliv- 
ered to  me  yesterday?" 

"I  beg  Monseigneur  not  to  tell  the  Count  that  he 
was  not  obeyed." 

"  Yesterday  ? ' '  repeated  Andras. 

"  Yes,  yesterday,  Monseigneur.  The  Count  departed, 
thinking  it  would  be  done;  and,  indeed,  he  had  a  right 
to  think  so.  I  am  very  careful,  Monseigneur,  very  care- 
ful; and  if  Monseigneur  should  some  day  have  need 
of  a " 

The  Prince  stopped  the  valet  with  a  gesture.  It  was 
repugnant  to  Andras  to  have  this  man  mixed  up  in  a 
secret  of  his  life ;  and  such  a  secret !  But  the  domestic 
was  evidently  ignorant  what  a  commission  Menko  had 
confided  to  him:  in  his  eyes,  the  package,  containing 
such  letters,  was  like  any  other  package.  Andras  was 
persuaded  of  this  by  the  attitude  of  the  man,  humiliated 
at  having  failed  in  his  duty. 

A  word  more  exchanged  with  the  valet,  and  Andras 
would  have  felt  humiliated  himself.  But  he  had  gained 
from  the  conversation  the  idea  that  Menko  had  not 
wished  to  insult  him  in  his  happiness,  but  to  reveal  all 
to  him  before  the  ceremony  had  yet  been  celebrated. 
It  was  as  atrocious,  but  not  so  cowardly.  Menko  had 
wished  to  attack  Marsa,  rather  than  Andras;  this  was 
visible  in  the  express  commands  given  to  his  valet. 
And  upon  what  a  trifle  had  it  depended,  whether  the 
name  of  Zilah  should  be  borne  by  this  woman!  Upon 
what?  Upon  a  servant's  feast!  Life  is  full  of  strange 

[i94] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

chances.  The  hands  of  that  low-born  valet  had  held  for 
hours  his  happiness  and  his  honor — his  honor,  Andras 
Zilah's — the  honor  of  all  his  race! 

The  Prince  returned  to  his  hotel,  which  he  had  left 
that  morning  thinking  that  he  would  soon  bring  there 
the  woman  he  then  adored,  but  whom  he  now  despised 
and  hated.  Oh!  he  would  know  where  Menko  had 
gone;  him  he  could  punish;  as  for  Marsa,  she  was  now 
dead  to  him. 

But  where,  in  the  whirlpool  of  the  New  World,  would 
this  Michel  Menko  disappear  ?  and  how  could  he  find 
him? 

The  days  passed ;  and  Zilah  had  acquired  almost  the 
certainty  that  Menko  had  not  embarked  at  Havre. 
Perhaps  he  had  not  quitted  Europe.  He  might,  some 
day  or  another,  in  spite  of  what  the  valet  had  said,  re- 
appear in  Paris;  and  then 

Meanwhile,  the  Prince  led  the  life  of  a  man  wounded 
to  the  heart;  seeking  solitude,  and  shutting  himself  in 
his  hotel,  in  the  Rue  Balzac,  like  a  wolf  in  his  den ;  re- 
ceiving no  one  but  Varhely,  and  sometimes  treating 
even  old  Yanski  coldly;  then,  suddenly  emerging  from 
his  retirement,  and  trying  to  take  up  his  life  again; 
appearing  at  the  meetings  of  the  Hungarian  aid  society, 
of  which  he  was  president;  showing  himself  at  the 
races,  at  the  theatre,  or  even  at  Baroness  Dinati's; 
longing  to  break  the  dull  monotony  of  his  now  ruined 
life;  and,  with  a  sort  of  bravado,  looking  society  and 
opinion  full  in  the  face,  as  if  to  surprise  a  smile  or  a 
sneer  at  his  expense,  and  punish  it. 

He  had,  however,  no  right  to  complain  of  the  senti- 
[i95] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

ment  which  was  felt  for  him,  for  every  one  respected 
and  admired  him.  At  first,  it  is  true,  society,  and  in 
particular  that  society  of  Parisian  foreigners  in  which 
Prince  Andras  mingled,  had  tried  to  find  out  why  he 
had  broken  so  suddenly  with  the  woman  he  had  cer- 
tainly married  for  love.  Public  curiosity,  aroused  and 
excited,  had  sought  to  divine  the  secret  of  the  romance. 
"If  it  does  not  get  into  the  newspapers,"  they  s.aid,  "it 
will  be  fortunate."  And  society  was  even  astonished 
that  the  journals  had  not  already  discovered  the  key  to 
this  Parisian  mystery. 

But  society,  after  all  as  fickle  as  it  is  curious  (one  of 
its  little  vices  chasing  away  the  other),  turned  suddenly 
to  another  subject;  forgot  the  rupture  of  Marsa  and 
Andras,  and  saw  in  Zilah  only  a  superior  being,  whose 
lofty  soul  forced  respect  from  the  frivolous  set  accus- 
tomed to  laugh  at  everything. 

A  lofty  soul,  yes,  but  a  soul  in  torment.  Varhely 
alone,  among  them  all,  knew  anything  of  the  suffering 
which  Andras  endured.  He  was  no  longer  the  same 
man.  His  handsome  face,  with  its  kindly  eyes  and  grave 
smile,  was  now  constantly  overshadowed.  He  spoke 
less,  and  thought  more.  On  the  subject  of  his  sadness 
and  his  grief,  Andras  never  uttered  a  word  to  any  one, 
not  even  to  his  old  friend;  and  Yanski,  silent  from  the 
day  when  he  had  been  an  unconscious  messenger  of  ill, 
had  not  once  made  any  allusion  to  the  past. 

Although  he  knew  nothing,  Varhe'ly  had,  neverthe- 
less, guessed  everything,  and  at  once.  The  blow  was 
too  direct  and  too  cruelly  simple  for  the  old  Hungarian 
not  to  have  immediately  exclaimed,  with  rage; 

[196] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"Those  were  love-letters,  and  I  gave  them  to  him! 
Idiot  that  I  was!  I  held  those  letters  in  my  hand;  I 
might  have  destroyed  them,  or  crammed  them  one  by 
one  down  Menko's  throat!  But  who  could  have  sus- 
pected such  an  infamy?  Menko!  A  man  of  honor! 
Ah,  yes;  what  does  honor  amount  to  when  there  is  a 
woman  in  question  ?  Imbecile !  And  it  is  irreparable 
now,  irreparable!" 

Varhely  also  was  anxious  to  know  where  Menko  had 
gone.  They  did  not  know  at  the  Austro-Hungarian 
embassy.  It  was  a  complete  disappearance,  perhaps  a 
suicide.  If  the  old  Hungarian  had  met  the  young  man, 
he  would  at  least  have  gotten  rid  of  part  of  his  bile.  But 
the  angry  thought  that  he,  Varhely,  had  been  associated 
in  a  vile  revenge  which  had  touched  Andras,  was,  for 
the  old  soldier,  a  constant  cause  for  ill-humor  with  him- 
self, and  a  thing  which,  in  a  measure,  poisoned  his  life. 

Varhely  had  long  been  a  misanthrope  himself;  but  he 
tried  to  struggle  against  his  own  temperament  when 
he  saw  Andras  wrapping  himself  up  in  bitterness  and 
gloomy  thoughts. 

Little  by  little,  Zilah  allowed  himself  to  sink  into  that 
state  where  not  only  everything  becomes  indifferent  to 
us,  but  where  we  long  for  another  suffering,  further 
pain,  that  we  may  utter  more  bitter  cries,  more  irritated 
complaints  against  fate.  It  seems  then  that  everything 
is  dark  about  us,  and  our  endless  night  is  traversed  by 
morbid  visions,  and  peopled  with  phantoms.  The  sick 
man — for  the  one  who  suffers  such  torture  is  sick — 
would  willingly  seek  a  new  sorrow,  like  those  wounded 
men  who,  seized  with  frenzy,  open  their  wounds  them- 


JULES  CLARETIE 

selves,  and  irritate  them  with  the  point  of  a  knife. 
Then,  misanthropy  and  disgust  of  life  assume  a  phase 
in  which  pain  is  not  without  a  certain  charm.  There  is 
a  species  of  voluptuousness  in  this  appetite  for  suf- 
fering, and  the  sufferer  becomes,  as  it  were,  enamored  of 
his  own  agony. 

With  Zilah,  this  sad  state  was  due  to  a  sort  of  insur- 
rection of  his  loyalty  against  the  many  infamies  to  be 
met  with  in  this  world,  which  he  had  believed  to  be  only 
too  full  of  virtues. 

He  now  considered  himself  an  idiot,  a  fool,  for  having 
all  his  life  adored  chimeras,  and  followed,  as  children 
do  passing  music,  the  fanfares  of  poetic  chivalry.  Yes, 
faith,  enthusiasm,  love,  were  so  many  cheats,  so  many 
lies.  All  beings  who,  like  himself,  were  worshippers  of 
the  ideal,  all  dreamers  of  better  things,  all  lovers  of  love, 
were  inevitably  doomed  to  deception,  treason,  and  the 
stupid  ironies  of  fate.  And,  full  of  anger  against  him- 
self, his  pessimism  of  to-day  sneering  at  his  confidence 
of  yesterday,  he  abandoned  himself  with  delight  to  his 
bitterness,  and  he  took  keen  joy  in  repeating  to  himself 
that  the  secret  of  happiness  in  this  life  was  to  believe  in 
nothing  except  treachery,  and  to  defend  oneself  against 
men  as  against  wolves. 

Very  rarely,  his  real  frank,  true  nature  would  come 
to  the  fore,  and  he  would  say : 

"After  all,  are  the  cowardice  of  one  man,  and  the  lie 
of  one  woman,  to  be  considered  the  crime  of  entire 
humanity?" 

Why  should  he  curse,  he  would  think,  other  beings 
than  Marsa  and  Menko  ?  He  had  no  right  to  hate  any 

[198] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

one  else ;  he  had  no  enemy  that  he  knew  of,  and  he  was 
honored  in  Paris,  his  new  country. 

No  enemy?  No,  not  one.  And  yet,  one  morning, 
with  his  letters,  his  valet  brought  him  a  journal  ad- 
dressed to  "Prince  Zilah,"  and,  on  unfolding  it,  An- 
dras's  attention  was  attracted  to  two  paragraphs  in  the 
column  headed  "  Echoes  of  Paris,"  which  were  marked 
with  a  red-lead  pencil. 

It  was  a  number  of  VActualite,  sent  through  the  post 
by  an  unknown  hand,  and  the  red  marks  were  evidently 
intended  to  point  out  to  the  Prince  something  of  interest 
to  himself. 

Andras  received  few  journals.  A  sudden  desire  seized 
him,  as  if  he  had  a  presentiment  of  what  it  contained, 
to  cast  this  one  into  the  fire  without  reading  it.  For  a 
moment  he  held  it  in  his  fingers  ready  to  throw  it  into 
the  grate.  Then  a  few  words  read  by  accident  invincibly 
prevented  him. 

He  read,  at  first  with  poignant  sorrow,  and  then  with 
a  dull  rage,  the  two  paragraphs,  one  of  which  followed 
the  other  in  the  paper. 

"A  sad  piece  of  news  has  come  to  our  ears,"  ran  the 
first  paragraph,  "a  piece  of  news  which  has  afflicted  all 
the  foreign  colony  of  Paris,  and  especially  the  Hun- 
garians. The  lovely  and  charming  Princess  Z.,  whose 
beauty  was  recently  crowned  with  a  glorious  coronet, 
has  been  taken,  after  a  consultation  of  the  princes  of 
science  (there  are  princes  in  all  grades),  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  Dr.  Sims,  at  Vaugirard,  the  rival  of  the 
celebrated  asylum  of  Dr.  Luys,  at  Ivry.  Together 
with  the  numerous  friends  of  Prince  A.  Z.,  we  hope  that 


JULES  CLARETIE 

the  sudden  malady  of  the  Princess  Z.  will  be  of  short 
duration." 

So  Marsa  was  now  the  patient,  almost  the  prisoner, 
of  Dr.  Sims!  The  orders  of  Dr.  Fargeas  had  been 
executed.  She  was  in  an  insane  asylum,  and  Andras, 
despite  himself,  felt  filled  with  pity  as  he  thought 
of  it. 

But  the  red  mark  surrounded  both  this  first  "Echo  of 
Paris,"  and  the  one  which  followed  it;  and  Zilah,  im- 
pelled now  by  eager  curiosity,  proceeded  with  his 
reading. 

But  he  uttered  a  cry  of  rage  when  he  saw,  printed  at 
full  length,  given  over  to  common  curiosity,  to  the 
eagerness  of  the  public  for  scandal,  and  to  the  malig- 
nity of  blockheads,  a  direct  allusion  to  his  marriage- 
worse  than  that,  the  very  history  of  his  marriage  placed 
in  an  outrageous  manner  next  to  the  paragraph  in 
which  his  name  was  almost  openly  written.  The  editor 
of  the  society  journal  passed  directly  from  the  informa- 
tion in  regard  to  the  illness  of  Princess  Z.  to  an  allegori- 
cal tale  in  which  Andras  saw  the  secret  of  his  life  and 
the  wounds  of  his  heart  laid  bare. 

A  LITTLE  PARISIAN  ROMANCE. 

Like  most  of  the  Parisian  romances  of  to-day,  the  little  romance 
in  question  is  an  exotic  one.  Paris  belongs  to  foreigners.  When 
the  Parisians,  whose  names  appear  in  the  chronicles  of  fashion,  are 
not  Americans,  Russians,  Roumanians,  Portuguese,  English,  Chi- 
nese, or  Hungarians,  they  do  not  count;  they  are  no  longer  Paris- 
ians. The  Parisians  of  the  day  are  Parisians  of  the  Prater,  of  the 
Newski  Perspective  or  of  Fifth  Avenue;  they  are  no  longer  pure- 
blooded  Parisians.  Within  ten  years  from  now  the  boulevards  will 

[  200] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

be  situated  in  Chicago,  and  one  will  go  to  pass  his  evenings  at  the 
Eden  Theatre  of  Pekin.  So,  this  is  the  latest  Parisian  romance: 
Once  upon  a  time  there  was  in  Paris  a  great  lord,  a  Moldavian,  or 
a  Wallachian,  or  a  Moldo-Wallachian  (in  a  word,  a  Parisian — a 
Parisian  of  the  Danube,  if  you  like),  who  fell  in  love  with  a  young 
Greek,  or  Turk,  or  Armenian  (also  of  Paris),  as  dark-browed  as  the 
night,  as  beautiful  as  the  day.  The  great  lord  was  of  a  certain  age, 
that  is,  an  uncertain  age.  The  beautiful  Athenian  or  Georgian,  or 
Circassian,  was  young.  The  great  lord  was  generally  considered 
to  be  imprudent.  But  what  is  to  be  done  when  one  loves  ?  Marry 
or  don't  marry,  says  Rabelais  or  Moliere.  Perhaps  they  both  said 
it.  Well,  at  all  events,  the  great  lord  married.  It  appears,  if  well- 
informed  people  are  to  be  believed,  that  the  great  Wallachian  lord 
and  the  beautiful  Georgian  did  not  pass  two  hours  after  their  mar- 
riage beneath  the  same  roof.  The  very  day  of  their  wedding, 
quietly,  and  without  scandal,  they  separated,  and  the  reason  of  this 
rupture  has  for  a  long  time  puzzled  Parisian  high-life.  It  was 
remarked,  however,  that  the  separation  of  the  newly-married  pair 
was  coincident  with  the  disappearance  of  a  very  fashionable  attache* 
who,  some  years  ago,  was  often  seen  riding  in  the  Bois,  and  who 
was  then  considered  to  be  the  most  graceful  waltzer  of  the  Viennese, 
or  Muscovite,  or  Castilian  colony  of  Paris.  We  might,  if  we  were 
indiscreet,  construct  a  whole  drama  with  these  three  people  for  our 
dramatis  persona;  but  we  wish  to  prove  that  reporters  (different  in 
this  from  women)  sometimes  know  how  to  keep  a  secret.  For 
those  ladies  who  are,  perhaps,  still  interested  in  the  silky  moustaches 
of  the  fugitive  ex-diplomat,  we  can  add,  however,  that  he  was  seen 
at  Brussels  a  short  time  ago.  He  passed  through  there  like  a 
shooting  star.  Some  one  who  saw  him  noticed  that  he  was  rather 
pale,  and  that  he  seemed  to  be  still  suffering  from  the  wounds  re- 
ceived not  long  ago.  As  for  the  beautiful  Georgian,  they  say  she 
is  in  despair  at  the  departure  of  her  husband,  the  great  Wallachian 
lord,  who,  in  spite  of  his  ill-luck,  is  really  a  Prince  Charming. 

Andras  Zilah  turned  rapidly  to  the  signature  of  this 
article.    The  " Echoes  of  Paris"  were  signed  Puck. 

[201] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

Puck?  Who  was  this  Puck?  How  could  an  un- 
known, an  anonymous  writer,  a  retailer  of  scandals,  be 
possessed  of  his  secret?  For  Andras  believed  that  his 
suffering  was  a  secret;  he  had  never  had  an  idea  that 
any  one  could  expose  it  tc  the  curiosity  of  the  crowd,  as 
this  editor  of  L'Actualite  had  done.  He  felt  an  increased 
rage  against  the  invisible  Michel  Menko,  who  had  dis- 
appeared after  his  infamy;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
this  Puck,  this  unknown  journalist,  was  an  accomplice 
or  a  friend  of  Michel  Menko,  and  that,  behind  the 
pseudonym  of  the  writer,  he  perceived  the  handsome 
face,  twisted  moustache  and  haughty  smile  of  the  young 
Count. 

"After  all,"  he  said  to  himself,  "we  shall  soon  find 
out.  Monsieur  Puck  must  be  less  difficult  to  unearth 
than  Michel  Menko." 

He  rang  for  his  valet,  and  was  about  to  go  out,  when 
Yanski  Varhely  was  announced. 

The  old  Hungarian  looked  troubled,  and  his  brows 
were  contracted  in  a  frown.  He  could  not  repress  a 
movement  of  anger  when  he  perceived,  upon  the 
Prince's  table,  the  marked  number  of  UActualite. 

Varhe'ly,  when  he  had  an  afternoon  to  get  rid  of, 
usually  went  to  the  Palais-Royal.  He  had  lived  for 
twenty  years  not  far  from  there,  in  a  little  apartment 
near  Saint-Roch.  Drinking  in  the  fresh  air,  under  the 
striped  awning  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Rotunde,  he  read  the 
journals,  one  after  the  other,  or  watched  the  sparrows 
fly  about  and  peck  up  the  grains  in  the  sand.  Children 
ran  here  and  there,  playing  at  ball;  and,  above  the  noise 
of  the  promenacjers,  arose  the  music  of  the  brass  band, 

[202] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

It  was  chiefly  the  political  news  he  sought  for  in  the 
French  or  foreign  journals.  He  ran  through  them  all 
with  his  nose  in  the  sheets,  which  he  held  straight  out 
by  the  wooden  file,  like  a  flag.  With  a  rapid  glance,  he 
fell  straight  upon  the  Hungarian  names  which  inter- 
ested him — Deak  sometimes,  sometimes  Andrassy; 
and  from  a  German  paper  he  passed  to  an  English, 
Spanish,  or  Italian  one,  making,  as  he  said,  a  tour  of 
Europe,  acquainted  as  he  was  with  almost  all  European 
languages. 

An  hour  before  he  appeared  at  the  Prince's  house,  he 
was  seated  in  the  shade  of  the  trees,  scanning  UActu- 
alite,  when  he  suddenly  uttered  an  oath  of  anger  (an 
Hungarian  teremtete ! )  as  he  came  across  the  two  para- 
graphs alluding  to  Prince  Andras. 

Varhely  read  the  lines  over  twice,  to  convince  him- 
self that  he  was  not  mistaken,  and  that  it  was  Prince 
Zilah  who  was  designated  with  the  skilfully  veiled  in- 
nuendo of  an  expert  journalist.  There  was  no  chance 
for  doubt;  the  indistinct  nationality  of  the  great  lord 
spoken  of  thinly  veiled  the  Magyar  characteristics  of 
Andras,  and  the  paragraph  which  preceded  the  "Little 
Parisian  Romance"  was  very  skilfully  arranged  to  let 
the  public  guess  the  name  of  the  hero  of  the  adventure, 
while  giving  to  the  anecdote  related  the  piquancy  of 
the  anonymous,  that  velvet  mask  of  scandal-mongers. 

Then  Varhely  had  only  one  idea. 

"Andras  must  not  know  of  this  article.  He  scarcely 
ever  reads  the  journals;  but  some  one  may  have  sent 
this  paper  to  him." 

And  the  old  misanthrope  hurried  to  the  Prince's  ho- 


JULES  CLARETIE 

tel,  thinking  this:  that  there  always  exist  people  ready 
to  forward  paragraphs  of  this  kind. 

When  he  perceived  UActualite  upon  the  Prince's 
table,  he  saw  that  his  surmise  was  only  too  correct,  and 
he  was  furious  with  himself  for  arriving  too  late. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked  Andras,  who  was 
putting  on  his  gloves. 

The  Prince  took  up  the  marked  paper,  folded  it 
slowly,  and  replied : 

"I  am  going  out." 

"Have  you  read  that  paper?" 

"The  marked  part  of  it,  yes." 

"You  know  that  that  sheet  is  never  read,  it  has  no 
circulation  whatever,  it  lives  from  its  advertisements. 
There  is  no  use  in  taking  any  notice  of  it." 

"If  there  were  question  only  of  myself,  I  should  not 
take  any  notice  of  it.  But  they  have  mixed  up  in  this 
scandal  the  name  of  the  woman  to  whom  I  have  given 
my  name.  I  wish  to  know  who  did  it,  and  why  he  did 
it." 

"  Oh !  for  nothing,  for  fun !  Because  this  Monsieur — 
how  does  he  sign  himself? — Puck  had  nothing  else  to 
write  about." 

"It  is  certainly  absurd,"  remarked  Zilah,  "to  imag- 
ine that  a  man  can  live  in  the  ideal.  At  every  step  the 
reality  splashes  you  with  mud." 

As  he  spoke,  he  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Varhely  again. 

"To  the  office  of  this  journal." 

"Do  not  commit  such  an  imprudence.  The  article, 
which  has  made  no  stir  as  yet,  will  be  read  and  talked 


of  by  all  Paris  if  you  take  any  notice  of  it,  and  it  will  be 
immediately  commented  upon  by  the  correspondents  of 
the  Austrian  and  Hungarian  journals." 

"That  matters  little  to  me!"  said  the  Prince,  reso- 
lutely. "Those  people  will  only  do  what  their  trade 
obliges  them  to.  But,  before  everything,  I  am  resolved 
to  do  my  duty.  That  is  my  part  in  this  matter." 

"Then  I  will  accompany  you." 

"No,"  replied  Andras,  "I  ask  you  not  to  do  that; 
but  it  is  probable  that  to-morrow  I  shall  request  you  to 
serve  as  my  second." 

"A  duel?" 

"Exactly." 

"  With  Monsieur— Puck  ?  " 

"With  whoever  insults  me.  The  name  is  perfectly 
immaterial.  But  since  he  escapes  me  and  she  is  irre- 
sponsible— and  punished — I  regard  as  an  accomplice 
of  their  infamy  any  man  who  makes  allusion  to  it  with 
either  tongue  or  pen.  And,  my  dear  Varhely,  I  wish  to 
act  alone.  Don't  be  angry;  I  know  that  in  your  hands 
my  honor  would  be  as  faithfully  guarded  as  in  my 
own." 

"Without  any  doubt,"  said  Varhely,  in  an  odd  tone, 
pulling  his  rough  moustache,  "  and  I  hope  to  prove  it  to 
you  some  day." 


[2°5] 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   HOME   OF    "PUCK 


RINCE  ZILAH  did  not  observe  at  all 
the  marked  significance  old  Yanski  gave 
to  this  last  speech.  He  shook  Var- 
(j  hely's  hand,  entered  a  cab,  and,  casting 
a  glance  at  the  journal  in  his  hands,  he 
ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the 
office  of  UActualite,  Rue  Halevy,  near 
the  Opera. 

The  society  journal,  whose  aim  was  represented  by  its 
title,  had  its  quarters  on  the  third  floor  in  that  semi- 
English  section  where  bars,  excursion  agencies,  steam- 
boat offices,  and  manufacturers  of  travelling-bags  give  to 
the  streets  a  sort  of  Britannic  aspect.  The  office  of 
VActualite  had  only  recently  been  established  there. 
Prince  Zilah  read  the  number  of  the  room  upon  a  brass 
sign  and  went  up. 

In  the  outer  office  there  were  only  two  or  three  clerks 
at  work  behind  the  grating.  None  of  these  had  the 
right  to  reveal  the  names  hidden  under  pseudonyms; 
they  did  not  even  know  them.  Zilah  perceived,  through 
an  open  door,  the  reporters'  room,  furnished  with  a  long 
table  covered  with  pens,  ink,  and  pads  of  white  paper. 
This  room  was  empty;  the  journal  was  made  up  in  the 
evening,  and  the  reporters  were  absent, 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"Is  there  any  one  who  can  ansv;er  me?"  asked  the 
Prince. 

"  Probably  the  secretary  can,"  replied  a  clerk.  "  Have 
you  a  card,  Monsieur?  or,  if  you  will  write  your  name 
upon  a  bit  of  paper,  it  will  do." 

Andras  did  so ;  the  clerk  opened  a  door  in  the  corridor 
and  disappeared.  After  a  minute  or  two  he  reappeared, 
and  said  to  the  Prince: 

"  If  you  will  follow  me,  Monsieur  Fremin  will  see  you." 

Andras  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  pleasant- 
looking  middle-aged  man,  who  was  writing  at  a  modest 
desk  when  the  Hungarian  entered,  and  who  bowed  po- 
litely, motioning  him  to  be  seated. 

As  Zilah  sat  down  upon  the  sofa,  there  appeared  upon 
the  threshold  of  a  door,  opposite  the  one  by  which  he 
had  entered,  a  small,  dark,  elegantly  dressed  young  man, 
whom  Andras  vaguely  remembered  to  have  seen  some- 
where, he  could  not  tell  where.  The  newcomer  was 
irreproachable  in  his  appearance,  with  his  clothes  built 
in  the  latest  fashion,  snowy  linen,  pale  gray  gloves,  sil- 
ver-headed cane,  and  a  single  eyeglass,  dangling  from  a 
silken  cord. 

He  bowed  to  Zilah,  and,  going  up  to  the  secretary,  he 
said,  rapidly: 

"Well!  since  Tourillon  is  away,  I  will  report  the  En 
ghien  races.     I  am  going  there  now.     Enghien  isn't 
highly  diverting,  though.     The  swells  and  the  pretty 
women  so  rarely  go  there;  they  don't  affect  Enghien  any 
more.     But  duty  before  everything,  eh,  Fremin?" 

"You  will  have  to  hurry,"  said  Fremin,  looking  at  his 
watch,  "or  you  will  miss  your  train," 

[207] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Oh!  I  have  a  carriage  below." 

He  clapped  his  confrere  on  the  shoulder,  bowed  again 
to  Zilah,  and  hurried  away,  while  Fremin,  turning  to  the 
Prince,  said: 

"I  am  at  your  service,  Monsieur,"  and  waited  for  him 
to  open  the  conversation. 

Zilah  drew  from  his  pocket  the  copy  of  L'Actualite, 
and  said,  very  quietly: 

"I  should  like  to  know,  Monsieur,  who  is  meant  in 
this  article  here." 

And,  folding  the  paper,  with  the  passage  which  con- 
cerned him  uppermost,  he  handed  it  to  the  secretary. 

Fre'min  glanced  at  the  article. 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  this  paragraph,"  he  said;  "but  I 
am  entirely  ignorant  to  whom  it  alludes.  I  am  not  even 
certain  that  it  is  not  a  fabrication,  invented  out  of  whole 
cloth." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Zilah.  "  The  author  of  the  article  would 
know,  I  suppose?" 

"It  is  highly  probable,"  replied  Fremin,  with  a  smile. 

"Will  you  tell  me,  then,  the  name  of  the  person  who 
wrote  this?" 

"Isn't  the  article  signed?" 

"It  is  signed  Puck.     That  is  not  a  name." 

"A  pseudonym  is  a  name  in  literature,"  said  Fremin. 
"I  am  of  the  opinion,  however,  that  one  has  always  the 
right  to  demand  to  see  a  face  which  is  covered  by  a  mask. 
But  the  person  who  makes  this  demand  should  be  per- 
sonally interested.  Does  this  story,  to  which  you  have 
called  my  attention,  concern  you,  Monsieur?" 

"Suppose,  Monsieur,"  answered  Zilah,  a  little  dis- 
[208] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

concerted,  for  he  perceived  that  he  had  to  do  with  a 
courteous,  well-bred  man,  "suppose  that  the  man  who 
is  mentioned,  or  rather  insulted,  here,  were  my  best 
friend.  I  wish  to  demand  an  explanation  of  the  person 
who  wrote  this  article,  and  to  know,  also,  if  it  was  really 
a  journalist  who  composed  those  lines." 

"You  mean? " 

"I  mean  that  there  may  be  people  interested  in  hav- 
ing such  an  article  published,  and  I  wish  to  know  who 
they  are." 

"You  are  perfectly  justified,  Monsieur;  but  only  one 
person  can  tell  you  that — the  writer  of  the  article." 

"It  is  for  that  reason,  Monsieur,  that  I  desire  to  know 
his  name." 

"He  does  not  conceal  it,"  said  Fremin.  "The  pseu- 
donym is  only  designed  as  a  stimulant  to  curiosity;  but 
Puck  is  a  corporeal  being." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Zilah.  "Now,  will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  give  me  his  name?" 

"Paul  Jacquemin." 

Zilah  knew  the  name  well,  having  seen  it  at  the  end 
of  a  report  of  his  river  f$te;  but  he  hardly  thought 
Jacquemin  could  be  so  well  informed.  Since  he  had 
lived  in  France,  the  Hungarian  exile  had  not  been  ac- 
customed to  regard  Paris  as  a  sort  of  gossiping  village, 
where  everything  is  found  out,  talked  over,  and  com- 
mented upon  with  eager  curiosity,  and  where  every 
one's  aim  is  to  appear  to  have  the  best  and  most  cor- 
rect information. 

"I  must  ask  you  now,  Monsieur,  where  Monsieur 
Paul  Jacquemin  lives?" 

14  [209] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Rue  Rochechouart,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Tour  d'Auvergne." 

"Thank  you,  Monsieur,"  said  Andras,  rising,  the 
object  of  his  call  having  been  accomplished. 

"One  moment,"  said  Fremin,  "if  you  intend  to  go  at 
once  to  Monsieur  Jacquemin's  house,  you  will  not  find 
him  at  home  just  now." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  saw  him  here  a  few  minutes  ago,  and 
he  is  now  on  his  way  to  Enghien." 

" Indeed !"  said  the  Prince.     "Very  well,  I  will  wait." 

He  bade  farewell  to  Fremin,  who  accompanied  him  to 
the  door;  and,  when  seated  in  his  carriage,  he  read  again 
the  paragraph  of  Puck — that  Puck,  who,  in  the  course 
of  the  same  article,  referred  many  times  to  the  brilliancy 
of  "our  colleague  Jacquemin,"  and  complacently  cited 
the  witticisms  of  "our  clever  friend  Jacquemin." 

Zilah  remembered  this  Jacquemin  now.  It  was  he 
whom  he  had  seen  taking  notes  upon  the  parapet  of  the 
quay,  and  afterward  at  the  wedding,  where  he  had  been 
brought  by  the  Baroness  Dinati.  It  was  Jacquemin 
who  was  such  a  favorite  with  the  little  Baroness ;  who 
was  one  of  the  licensed  distributors  of  celebrity  and 
quasi-celebrity  for  all  those  who  live  upon  gossip  and 
for  gossip — great  ladies  who  love  to  see  their  names  in 
print,  and  actresses  wild  over  a  new  role;  who  was  one 
of  the  chroniclers  of  fashion,  received  everywhere, 
flattered,  caressed,  petted;  whom  the  Prince  had  just 
seen,  very  elegant  with  his  stick  and  eyeglass,  and  his 
careless,  disdainful  air;  and  who  had  said,  like  a  man 
accustomed  to  every  magnificence,  fatigued  with  luxury, 

[210] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

blase  with  pleasure,  and  caring  only  for  what  is  truly 
pschutt  (to  use  the  latest  slang) :  "  Pretty  women  so  rarely 
go  there!" 

Zilah  thought  that,  as  the  Baroness  had  a  particular 
predilection  for  Jacquemin,  it  was  perhaps  she,  who,  in 
her  gay  chatter,  had  related  the  story  to  the  reporter, 
and  who,  without  knowing  it  probably,  assuredly  with- 
out wishing  it,  had  furnished  an  article  for  UActualite. 
In  all  honor,  Jacquemin  was  really  the  spoiled  child  of 
the  Baroness,  the  director  of  the  entertainments  at  her 
house.  With  a  little  more  conceit,  Jacquemin,  who  was 
by  no  means  lacking  in  that  quality,  however,  might 
have  believed  that  the  pretty  little  woman  was  in  love 
with  him.  The  truth  is,  the  Baroness  Dinati  was  only 
in  love  with  the  reporter's  articles,  those  society  articles 
in  which  he  never  forgot  her,  but  paid,  with  a  string  of 
printed  compliments,  for  his  champagne  and  truffles. 

"And  yet,"  thought  Zilah,  "no,  upon  reflection,  I 
am  certain  that  the  Baroness  had  nothing  to  do  with  this 
outrage.  Neither  with  intention  nor  through  impru- 
dence would  she  have  given  any  of  these  details  to  this 
man." 

Now  that  the  Prince  knew  his  real  name,  he  might 
have  sent  to  Monsieur  Puck,  Varhely,  and  another  of  his 
friends.  Jacquemin  would  then  give  an  explanation; 
for  of  reparation  Zilah  thought  little.  And  yet,  full  of 
anger,  and  not  having  Menko  before  him,  he  longed  to 
punish  some  one;  he  wished,  that,  having  been  made 
to  suffer  so  himself,  some  one  should  expiate  his  pain. 
He  would  chastise  this  butterfly  reporter,  who  had  dared 
to  interfere  with  his  affairs,  and  wreak  his  vengeance 

[211] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

upon  him  as  if  he  were  the  coward  who  had  fled.  And, 
besides,  who  knew,  after  all,  if  this  Jacquemin  were  not 
the  confidant  of  Menko?  Varhely  would  not  have 
recognized  in  the  Prince  the  generous  Zilah  of  former 
times,  full  of  pity,  and  ready  to  forgive  an  injury. 

Andras  could  not  meet  Jacquemin  that  day,  unless  he 
waited  for  him  at  the  office  of  UActualite  until  the  races 
were  over,  and  he  therefore  postponed  his  intended  inter- 
view until  the  next  day. 

About  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  after  a  sleepless 
night,  he  sought  the  Rue  Rochechouart,  and  the  house 
Fremin  had  described  to  him.  It  was  there:  an  old 
weather-beaten  house,  with  a  narrow  entrance  and  a 
corridor,  in  the  middle  of  which  flowed  a  dirty,  foul- 
smelling  stream  of  water;  the  room  of  the  concierge 
looked  like  a  black  hole  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  the 
balusters  and  walls  of  which  were  wet  with  moisture  and 
streaked  with  dirt;  a  house  of  poor  working-people, 
many  stories  high,  and  built  in  the  time  when  this 
quarter  of  Paris  was  almost  a  suburb. 

Andras  hesitated  at  first  to  enter,  thinking  that  he 
must  be  mistaken.  He  thought  of  little  Jacquemin, 
dainty  and  neat  as  if  he  had  just  stepped  out  of  a  band- 
box, and  his  disdainful  remarks  upon  the  races  of  En- 
ghien,  where  the  swells  no  longer  went.  It  was  not 
possible  that  he  lived  here  in  this  wretched,  shabby 
place. 

The  concierge  replied  to  the  Prince,  however,  when  he 
asked  for  Jacquemin:  "Yes,  Monsieur,  on  the  fifth 
floor,  the  door  to  the  right;"  and  Zilah  mounted  the 
dark  stairs. 

[212] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

When  he  reached  the  fifth  floor,  he  did  not  yet  believe 
it  possible  that  the  Jacquemin  who  lived  there  was  the 
one  he  had  seen  the  day  before,  the  one  whom  Baroness 
Dinati  petted,  "our  witty  colleague  Jacquemin." 

He  knocked,  however,  at  the  door  on  the  right,  as  he 
had  been  directed.  No  one  came  to  open  it;  but  he 
could  hear  within  footsteps  and  indistinct  cries.  He 
then  perceived  that  there  was  a  bell-rope,  and  he  pulled 
it.  Immediately  he  heard  some  one  approaching  from 
within. 

He  felt  a  singular  sensation  of  concentrated  anger, 
united  to  a  fear  that  the  Jacquemin  he  was  in  search  of 
was  not  there. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  woman  appeared,  young, 
rather  pale,  with  pretty  blond  hair,  somewhat  dis- 
heveled, and  dressed  in  a  black  skirt,  with  a  white  dress- 
ing-sack thrown  over  her  shoulders. 

She  smiled  mechanically  as  she  opened  the  door,  and, 
as  she  saw  a  strange  face,  she  blushed  crimson,  and 
pulled  her  sack  together  beneath  her  chin,  fastening  it 
with  a  pin. 

"Monsieur  Jacquemin?"  said  Andras,  taking  off  his 
hat. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  he  lives  here,"  replied  the  young 
woman,  a  little  astonished. 

"Monsieur  Jacquemin,  the  journalist?"  asked  An- 
dras. 

"Yes,  yes,  Monsieur,"  she  answered  with  a  proud 
little  smile,  which  Zilah  was  not  slow  to  notice.  She 
now  opened  the  door  wide,  and  said,  stepping  aside  to 
let  the  visitor  pass: 

[213] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Will  you  take  the  trouble  to  come  in,  Monsieur?" 

She  was  not  accustomed  to  receive  calls  (Jacquemin 
always  making  his  appointments  at  the  office) ;  but,  as 
the  stranger  might  be  some  one  who  brought  her  hus- 
band work,  as  she  called  it,  she  was  anxious  not  to 
let  him  go  away  before  she  knew  what  his  errand 
was. 

"Please  come  in,  Monsieur!" 

The  Prince  entered,  and,  crossing  the  entry  in  two 
steps,  found  himself  in  a  small  dining-room  opening 
directly  out  of  the  kitchen,  where  three  tiny  little  chil- 
dren were  playing,  the  youngest,  who  could  not  have 
been  more  than  eighteen  months,  crawling  about  on  the 
floor.  Upon  the  ragged  oilcloth  which  covered  the 
table,  Zilah  noticed  two  pairs  of  men's  gloves,  one  gray,, 
the  other  yellow,  and  a  heap  of  soiled  white  cravats. 
Upon  a  wooden  chair,  by  the  open  door  of  the  kitchen, 
was  a  tub  full  of  shirts,  which  the  young  woman  had 
doubtless  been  washing  when  the  bell  rang. 

The  cries  Zilah  had  heard  came  from  the  children, 
who  were  now  silent,  staring  at  the  tall  gentleman,  who 
looked  at  them  in  surprise. 

The  young  woman  was  small  and  very  pretty,  but 
with  the  pallor  of  fatigue  and  overwork;  her  lips  were 
beautifully  chiselled,  but  almost  colorless;  and  she  was 
so  thin  that  her  figure  had  the  frail  appearance  of  an 
unformed  girl. 

"Will  you  sit  down,  Monsieur?"  she  asked,  timidly, 
advancing  a  cane-bottomed  chair. 

Everything  in  these  poor  lodgings  was  of  the  most 
shabby  description.  In  a  cracked  mirror  with  a  broken 

[214] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

frame  were  stuck  cards  of  invitation,  theatre  checks, 
and  race  tickets  admitting  to  the  grand  stand.  Upon  a 
cheap  little  table  with  broken  corners  was  a  heap  of 
New  Year's  cards,  bonbon  boxes,  and  novels  with  soiled 
edges.  Upon  the  floor,  near  the  children,  were  some 
remnants  of  toys;  and  the  cradle  in  which  the  baby 
slept  at  night  was  pushed  into  a  corner  with  a  child's 
chair,  the  arms  of  which  were  gone. 

Zilah  was  both  astonished  and  pained.  He  had  not 
expected  to  encounter  this  wretched  place,  the  poorly 
clad  children,  and  the  woman's  timid  smile. 

"Is  Monsieur  Jacquemin  at  home?"  he  asked 
abruptly,  desiring  to  leave  at  once  if  the  man  whom  he 
sought  was  not  there. 

"No,  Monsieur;  but  he  will  not  be  long  away.  Sit 
down,  Monsieur,  please!" 

She  entreated  so  gently,  with  such  an  uneasy  air  at  the 
threatened  departure  of  this  man  who  had  doubtless 
brought  some  good  news  for  her  husband,  that  the  Prince 
mechanically  obeyed,  thinking  again  that  there  was  evi- 
dently some  mistake,  and  that  it  was  not,  it  could  not 
be,  here  that  Jacquemin  lived. 

"Is  it  really  your  husband,  Madame,  who  writes 
under  the  signature  of  Puck  in  UActualite?"  he  asked. 
The  same  proud  smile  appeared  again  upon  her  thin, 
wan  face. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  yes,  it  is  really  he!"  she  replied. 
She  was  so  happy  whenever  any  one  spoke  to  her  of  her 
Paul.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  copies  of  UActu- 
alite to  the  concierge,  the  grocer,  and  the  butcher;  and 
she  was  so  proud  to  show  how  well  Paul  wrote,  and  what 

[215] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

fine  connections  he  had — her  Paul,  whom  she  loved  so 
much,  and  for  whom  she  sat  up  late  at  night  when  it  was 
necessary  to  prepare  his  linen  for  some  great  dinner  or 
supper  he  was  invited  to. 

"Oh!  it  is  indeed  he,  Monsieur,"  she  said  again,  while 
Zilah  watched  her  and  listened  in  silence.  "I  don't  like 
to  have  him  use  pseudonyms,  as  he  calls  them.  It  gives 
me  so  much  pleasure  to  see  his  real  name,  which  is  mine 
too,  printed  in  full.  Only  it  seems  that  it  is  better  some- 
times. Puck  makes  people  curious,  and  they  say,  Who 
can  it  be?  He  also  signed  himself  Gavroche  in  the 
Rabelais,  you  know,  which  did  not  last  very  long.  You 
are  perhaps  a  journalist  also,  Monsieur?" 

"No,"  said  Zilah. 

"Ah!  I  thought  you  were!  But,  after  all,  perhaps 
you  are  right.  It  is  a  hard  profession,  I  sometimes 
think.  You  have  to  be  out  so  late.  If  you  only  knew, 
Monsieur,  how  poor  Paul  is  forced  to  work  even  at 
night!  It  tires  him  so,  and  then  it  costs  so  much.  I 
beg  your  pardon  for  leaving  those  gloves  like  that  before 
you.  I  was  cleaning  them.  He  does  not  like  cleaned 
gloves,  though;  he  says  it  always  shows.  Well,  I  am  a 
woman,  and  I  don't  notice  it.  And  then  I  take  so  much 
care  of  all  that.  It  is  necessary,  and  everything  costs  so 
dear.  You  see  I — Gustave,  don't  slap  your  little  sister! 
you  naughty  boy!" 

And  going  to  the  children,  her  sweet,  frank  eyes  be- 
coming sad  at  a  quarrel  between  her  little  ones,  she 
gently  took  the  baby  away  from  the  oldest  child,  who 
cried,  and  went  into  a  corner  to  pout,  regarding  his 
mother  with  the  same  impudent  air  which  Zilah  had  per- 

[216] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

ceived  in  the  curl  of  Jacquemin's  lips  when  the  reporter 
complained  of  the  dearth  of  pretty  women. 

"  It  is  certainly  very  astonishing  that  he  does  not  come 
home,"  continued  the  young  wife,  excusing  to  Zilah  the 
absence  of  her  Paul.  "  He  often  breakfasts,  however,  in 
the  city,  at  Brebant's.  It  seems  that  it  is  necessary  for 
him  to  do  so.  You  see,  at  the  restaurant  he  talks  and 
hears  news.  He  couldn't  learn  all  that  he  knows  here 
very  well,  could  he  ?  I  don't  know  much  of  things  that 
must  be  put  in  a  newspaper." 

And  she  smiled  a  little  sad  smile,  making  even  of  her 
humility  a  pedestal  for  the  husband  so  deeply  loved  and 
admired. 

Zilah  was  beginning  to  feel  ill  at  ease.  He  had  come 
with  anger,  expecting  to  encounter  the  little  fop  whom  he 
had  seen,  and  he  found  this  humble  and  devoted  woman, 
who  spoke  of  her  Paul  as  if  she  were  speaking  of  her 
religion,  and  who,  knowing  nothing  of  the  life  of  her 
husband,  only  loving  him,  sacrificed  herself  to  him  in 
this  almost  cruel  poverty  (a  strange  contrast  to  the  life 
of  luxury  Jacquemin  led  elsewhere),  with  the  holy  trust 
of  her  unselfish  love. 

"  Do  you  never  accompany  your  husband  anywhere  ?  " 
asked  Andras. 

"I?  Oh,  never!"  she  replied,  with  a  sort  of  fright. 
"He  does  not  wish  it — and  he  is  right.  You  see,  Mon- 
sieur, when  he  married  me,  five  years  ago,  he  was  not 
what  he  is  now;  he  was  a  railway  clerk.  I  was  a  work- 
ing-girl; yes,  I  was  a  seamstress.  Then  it  was  all  right, 
we  used  to  walk  together,  and  we  went  to  the  theatre; 
he  did  not  know  any  one.  It  is  different  now.  You 

[217] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

see,  if  the  Baroness  Dinati  should  see  me  on  his  arm, 
she  would  not  bow  to  him,  perhaps." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Madame,"  said  the  Hungarian, 
gently.  "You  are  the  one  who  should  be  bowed  to 
first." 

She  did  not  understand,  but  she  felt  that  a  compliment 
was  intended,  and  she  blushed  very  red,  not  daring  to 
say  any  more,  and  wondering  if  she  had  not  chatted  too 
much,  as  Jacquemin  reproached  her  with  doing  almost 
every  day. 

"Does  Monsieur  Jacquemin  go  often  to  the  theatre?" 
asked  Andras,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"Yes;  he  is  obliged  to  do  so." 

"And  you?" 

"Sometimes.  Not  to  the  first  nights,  of  course.  One 
has  to  dress  handsomely  for  them.  But  Paul  gives  me 
tickets,  oh,  as  many  as  I  want!  When  the  plays  are  no 
longer  drawing  money,  I  go  with  the  neighbors.  But  I 
prefer  to  stay  at  home  and  see  to  my  babies;  when  I  am 
sitting  in  the  theatre,  and  they  are  left  in  charge  of  the 
concierge,  I  think,  Suppose  anything  should  happen  to 
them !  And  that  idea  takes  away  all  my  pleasure.  Still, 
if  Paul  stayed  here — but  he  can  not ;  he  has  his  writing 
to  do  in  the  evenings.  Poor  fellow,  he  works  so  hard ! 
Well!"  with  a  sigh,  "I  don't  think  that  he  will  be  back 
to-day.  The  children  will  eat  his  beefsteak,  that's  all; 
it  won't  do  them  any  harm." 

As  she  spoke,  she  took  some  pieces  of  meat  from  an 
almost  empty  cupboard,  and  placed  them  on  the  table, 
excusing  herself  for  doing  so  before  Zilah. 

And  he  contemplated,  with  an  emotion  which  every 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

word  of  the  little  woman  increased,  this  poor,  miserable 
apartment,  where  the  wife  lived,  taking  care  of  her  chil- 
dren, while  the  husband,  Monsieur  Puck  or  Monsieur 
Gavroche,  paraded  at  the  fancy  fairs  or  at  the  theatres; 
figured  at  the  races;  tasted  the  Baroness  Dinati's  wines, 
caring  only  for  Johannisberg  with  the  blue  and  gold 
seal  of  1862;  and  gave  to  Potel  and  Chabot,  in  his  arti- 
cles, lessons  in  gastronomy. 

Then  Madame  Jacquemin,  feeling  instinctively  that 
she  had  the  sympathy  of  this  sad-faced  man  who  spoke 
to  her  in  such  a  gentle  voice,  related  her  life  to  him  with 
the  easy  confidence  which  poor  people,  who  never  see 
the  great  world,  possess.  She  told  him,  with  a  tender 
smile,  the  entirely  Parisian  idyl  of  the  love  of  the  work- 
ing-girl for  the  little  clerk  who  loved  her  so  much  and 
who  married  her;  and  of  the  excursions  they  used  to  take 
together  to  Saint- Germain,  going  third-class,  and  eating 
their  dinner  upon  the  green  grass  under  the  trees,  and 
then  enjoying  the  funny  doings  of  the  painted  clowns, 
the  illuminations,  the  music,  and  the  dancing.  Oh! 
they  danced  and  danced  and  danced,  until  she  was  so 
tired  that  she  slept  all  the  way  home  with  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  dreaming  of  the  happy  day  they  had  had. 

"That  was  the  best  time  of  my  life,  Monsieur.  We 
were  no  richer  than  we  are  now ;  but  we  were  more  free. 
He  was  with  me  more,  too :  now,  he  certainly  makes  me 
very  proud  with  his  beautiful  articles;  but  I  don't  see 
him;  I  don't  see  him  any  more,  and  it  makes  me  very 
sad.  Oh!  if  it  were  not  for  that,  although  we  are  not 
millionaires,  I  should  be  very  happy;  yes,  entirely,  en- 
tirely happy," 

[219] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

There  was,  in  the  simple,  gentle  resignation  of  this 
poor  girl,  sacrificed  without  knowing  it,  such  devoted 
love  for  the  man  who,  in  reality,  abandoned  her,  that 
Prince  Andras  felt  deeply  moved  and  touched.  He 
thought  of  the  one  leading  a  life  of  pleasure,  and  the 
other  a  life  of  fatigue;  of  this  household  touching  on  one 
side  poverty,  and,  on  the  other,  wealth  and  fashion ;  and 
he  divined,  from  the  innocent  words  of  this  young  wife, 
the  hardships  of  this  home,  half  deserted  by  the  husband, 
and  the  nervousness  and  peevishness  of  Jacquemin  re- 
turning to  this  poor  place  after  a  night  at  the  restaur- 
ants or  a  ball  at  Baroness  Dinati's.  He  heard  the  cut- 
ting voice  of  the  elegant  little  man  whom  his  humble 
wife  contemplated  with  the  eyes  of  a  Hindoo  adoring 
an  idol;  he  was  present,  in  imagination,  at  those  tragi- 
cally sorrowful  scenes  which  the  wife  bore  with  her 
tender  smile,  poor  woman,  knowing  of  the  life  of  her 
Paul  only  those  duties  of  luxury  which  she  herself  imag- 
ined, remaining  a  seamstress  still  to  sew  the  buttons  on 
the  shirts  and  gloves  of  her  husband,  and  absolutely 
ignorant  of  all  the  entertainments  where,  in  an  evening, 
would  sometimes  be  lost,  at  a  game  of  cards,  the  whole 
monthly  salary  of  Monsieur  Puck!  And  Zilah  said  to 
himself,  that  this  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time  that  this 
woman  had  ever  been  brought  in  contact  with  anything 
pertaining  to  her  husband's  fashionable  life — and  in 
what  shape  ? — that  of  a  man  who  had  come  to  demand 
satisfaction  for  an  injury,  and  to  say  to  Jacquemin:  "I 
shall  probably  kill  you,  Monsieur!" 

And  gradually,  before  the  spectacle  of  this  profound 
love,  of  this  humble  and  holy  devotion  of  the  unselfish 

[220] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

martyr  with  timid,  wistful  eyes,  who  leaned  over  her 
children,  and  said  to  them,  sweetly,  "Yes,  you  are 
hungry,  I  know,  but  you  shall  have  papa's  beefsteak," 
while  she  herself  breakfasted  off  a  little  coffee  and  a 
crust  of  bread,  Andras  Zilah  felt  all  his  anger  die  away; 
and  an  immense  pity  filled  his  breast,  as  he  saw,  as  in 
a  vision  of  what  the  future  might  have  brought  forth, 
a  terrible  scene  in  this  poor  little  household:  the  pale 
fair-haired  wife,  already  wasted  and  worn  with  constant 
labor,  leaning  out  of  the  window  yonder,  or  running  to 
the  stairs  and  seeing,  covered  with  blood,  wounded, 
wounded  to  death  perhaps,  her  Paul,  whom  he,  Andras, 
had  come  to  provoke  to  a  duel. 

Ah!  poor  woman!  Never  would  he  cause  her  such 
anguish  and  sorrow.  Between  his  sword  and  Jacque- 
min's  impertinent  little  person,  were  now  this  sad-eyed 
creature,  and  those  poor  little  children,  who  played 
there,  forgotten,  half  deserted,  by  their  father,  and  who 
would  grow  up,  Heaven  knows  how! 

"I  see  that  Monsieur  Jacquemin  will  not  return,"  he 
said,  rising  hurriedly,  "and  I  will  leave  you  to  your 
breakfast,  Madame." 

"Oh!  you  don't  trouble  me  at  all,  Monsieur.  I  beg 
your  pardon  again  for  having  given  my  children  their 
breakfast  before  you.*' 

"Farewell,  Madame,"  said  Andras,  bowing  with  the 
deepest  respect. 

"Then,  you  are  really  going,  Monsieur?  Indeed,  I 
am  afraid  he  won't  come  back.  But  please  tell  me  what 
I  shall  say  to  him  your  errand  was.  If  it  is  some  good 
news,  I  should  be  so  glad,  so  glad,  to  be  the  first  to  tell  it 

[221] 


to  him.  You  are,  perhaps,  although  you  say  not,  the 
editor  of  some  paper  which  is  about  to  be  started.  He 
spoke  to  me,  the  other  day,  of  a  new  paper.  He  would 
like  to  be  a  dramatic  critic.  That  is  his  dream,  he  says. 
Is  it  that,  Monsieur?" 

"No,  Madame;  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  there  is  no 
longer  any  need  for  me  to  see  your  husband.  But  I  do 
not  regret  my  visit ;  on  the  contrary — I  have  met  a  noble 
woman,  and  I  offer  her  my  deepest  respect." 

Poor,  unhappy  girl !  She  was  not  used  to  such  words ; 
she  blushingly  faltered  her  thanks,  and  seemed  quite 
grieved  at  the  departure  of  this  man,  from  whom  she 
had  expected  some  good  luck  for  her  husband. 

"The  life  of  Paris  has  its  secrets!"  thought  Zilah,  as 
he  slowly  descended  the  stairs,  which  he  had  mounted  in 
such  a  different  frame  of  mind,  so  short  a  time  before. 

When  he  reached  the  lower  landing,  he  looked  up, 
and  saw  the  blond  head  of  the  young  woman,  leaning 
over  above,  and  the  little  hands  of  the  children  clutch- 
ing the  damp  railing. 

Then  Prince  Andras  Zilah  took  off  his  hat,  and  again 
bowed  low. 

On  his  way  from  the  Rue  Rochechouart  to  his  hotel 
he  thought  of  the  thin,  pale  face  of  the  Parisian  grisette, 
who  would  slowly  pine  away,  deceived  and  disdained 
by  the  man  whose  name  she  bore.  Such  a  fine  name! 
Puck  or  Gavroche ! 

"  And  she  would  die  rather  than  soil  that  name.  This 
Jacquemin  has  found  this  pearl  of  great  price,  and  hid 
it  away  under  the  gutters  of  Paris !  And  I — I  have  en- 
countered—what ?  A  miserable  woman  who  betrayed 

[229] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

me!  Ah!  men  and  women  are  decidedly  the  victims  of 
chance;  puppets  destined  to  bruise  one  another!" 

On  entering  his  hotel,  he  found  Yanski  Varhely  there, 
with  an  anxious  look  upon  his  rugged  old  face. 

"Well?" 

"Well— nothing!" 

And  Zilah  told  his  friend  what  he  had  seen. 

"A  droll  city,  this  Paris!"  he  said,  in  conclusion.  "I 
see  that  it  is  necessary  to  go  up  into  the  garrets  to  know 
it  well." 

He  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  sat  down,  and  wrote  as 
follows : 

MONSIEUR: — You  have  published  an  article  in  regard  to  Prince 
Andras  Zilah,  which  is  an  outrage.  A  devoted  friend  of  the  Prince 
had  resolved  to  make  you  pay  dearly  for  it ;  but  there  is  some  one 
who  has  disarmed  him.  That  some  one  is  the  admirable  woman 
who  bears  so  honorably  the  name  which  you  have  given  her,  and 
lives  so  bravely  the  life  you  have  doomed  her  to.  Madame  Jacque- 
min  has  redeemed  the  infamy  of  Monsieur  Puck.  But  when,  in 
the  future,  you  have  to  speak  of  the  misfortunes  of  others,  think 
a  little  of  your  own  existence,  and  profit  by  the  moral  lesson 
given  you  by—  AN  UNKNOWN. 

"Now,"  said  Zilah,  "be  so  kind,  my  dear  Varhely,  as 
to  have  this  note  sent  to  Monsieur  Puck,  at  the  office  of 
L* Actualite:  and  ask  your  domestic  to  purchase  some 
toys,  whatever  he  likes — here  is  the  money — and  take 
them  to  Madame  Jacquemin,  No.  25  Rue  Rochechouart. 
Three  toys,  because  there  are  three  children.  The  poor 
little  things  will  have  gained  so  much,  at  all  events,  from 
this  occurrence," 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"AM  I  AVENGED?" 


this  episode,  the  Prince  lived 
a  more  solitary  existence  than  before, 
and  troubled  himself  no  further  about 
the  outside  world.  Why  should  he 
care,  that  some  penny-a-liner  had 
slipped  those  odious  lines  into  a  news- 
paper ?  His  sorrow  was  not  the  pub- 
lishing of  the  treachery,  it  was  the 
treachery  itself;  and  his  hourly  suffering  caused  him  to 
long  for  death  to  end  his  torture. 

"And  yet  I  must  live,"  he  thought,  "if  to  exist  with  a 
dagger  through  one's  heart  is  to  live." 

Then,  to  escape  from  the  present,  he  plunged  into  the 
memories  of  the  war,  as  into  a  bath  of  oblivion,  a  strange 
oblivion,  where  he  found  all  his  patriotic  regrets  of  other 
days.  He  read,  with  spasmodic  eagerness,  the  books  in 
which  Georgei  and  Klapka,  the  actors  of  the  drama, 
presented  their  excuses,  or  poured  forth  their  com- 
plaints; and  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  country  would 
make  him  forget  his  love. 

In  the  magnificent  picture-gallery,  where  he  spent 
most  of  his  time,  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  battle-scenes 
of  Matejks,  the  Polish  artist,  and  the  landscapes  of 
Munkacsy,  that  painter  of  his  own  country,  who  took 

[224] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

his  name  from  the  town  of  Munkacs,  where  tradition 
says  that  the  Magyars  settled  when  they  came  from  the 
Orient,  ages  ago.  Then  a  bitter  longing  took  possession 
of  him  to  breathe  a  different  air,  to  fly  from  Paris,  and 
place  a  wide  distance  between  himself  and  Marsa;  to 
take  a  trip  around  the  world,  where  new  scenes  might 
soften  his  grief,  or,  better  still,  some  accident  put  an  end 
to  his  life;  and,  besides,  chance  might  bring  him  in 
contact  with  Menko. 

But,  just  as  he  was  ready  to  depart,  a  sort  of  lassitude 
overpowered  him;  he  felt  the  inert  sensation  of  a 
wounded  man  who  has  not  the  strength  to  move,  and 
he  remained  where  he  was,  sadly  and  bitterly  wonder- 
ing at  times  if  he  should  not  appeal  to  the  courts,  dis- 
solve his  marriage,  and  demand  back  his  name  from 
the  one  who  had  stolen  it. 

Appeal  to  the  courts  ?  The  idea  of  doing  that  was  re- 
pugnant to  him.  What !  to  hear  the  proud  and  stainless 
name  of  the  Zilahs  resound,  no  longer  above  the  clash  of 
sabres  and  the  neighing  of  furious  horses,  but  within  the 
walls  of  a  court-room,  and  in  presence  of  a  gaping  crowd 
of  sensation  seekers  ?  No !  silence  was  better  than  that ; 
anything  was  better  than  publicity  and  scandal.  Di- 
vorce! He  could  obtain  that,  since  Marsa,  her  mind 
destroyed,  was  like  one  dead.  And  what  would  a  di- 
vorce give  him?  His  freedom?  He  had  it  already. 
But  what  nothing  could  give  back,  was  his  ruined  faith, 
his  shattered  hopes,  his  happiness  lost  forever. 

At  times  he  had  a  wild  desire  to  see  Marsa  again, 
and  vent  once  more  upon  her  his  anger  and  contempt. 
When  he  happened  to  see  the  name  of  Maisons-Lafitte, 
15  [225] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

his  body  tingled  from  head  to  foot,  as  by  an  electric 
shock.  Maisons!  The  sunlit  garden,  the  shaded  al- 
leys, the  glowing  parterres  of  flowers,  the  old  oaks,  the 
white-walled  villa,  all  appeared  before  him,  brutally 
distinct,  like  a  lost,  or  rather  poisoned,  Eden!  And, 
besides,  she,  Marsa,  was  no  longer  there;  and  the 
thought  that  the  woman  whom  he  had  so  passionately 
loved,  with  her  exquisite,  flower-like  face,  was  shut  up 
among  maniacs  at  Vaugirard,  caused  him  the  acutest 
agony.  The  asylum  which  was  Marsa' s  prison  was  so 
constantly  in  his  mind  that  he  felt  the  necessity  of 
flight,  in  order  not  to  allow  his  weakness  to  get  the  bet- 
ter of  him,  lest  he  should  attempt  to  see  Marsa  again. 

"What  a  coward  I  am!"  he  thought. 

One  evening  he  announced  to  Varhely  that  he  was 
going  to  the  lonely  villa  of  Sainte-Adresse,  where  they 
had  so  many  times  together  watched  the  sea  and  talked 
of  their  country. 

"I  am  going  there  to  be  alone,  my  dear  Yanski,"  he 
said,  "but  to  be  with  you  is  to  be  with  myself.  I  hope 
that  you  will  accompany  me." 

"Most  certainly,"  replied  Varhely. 

The  Prince  took  only  one  domestic,  wishing  to  live  as 
quietly  and  primitively  as  possible ;  but  Varhely,  really 
alarmed  at  the  rapid  change  in  the  Prince,  and  the  terri- 
ble pallor  of  his  face,  followed  him,  hoping  at  least  to 
distract  him  and  arouse  him  from  his  morbidness  by 
talking  over  with  him  the  great  days  of  the  past,  and 
even,  if  possible,  to  interest  him  in  the  humble  lives  of 
the  fishermen  about  him. 

Zilah  and  his  friend,  therefore,  passed  long  hours  upon 
[226] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

the  terrace  of  the  villa,  watching  the  sun  set  at  their  feet, 
while  the  grayish-blue  sea  was  enveloped  in  a  luminous 
mist,  and  the  fading  light  was  reflected  upon  the  red 
walls  and  white  blinds  of  the  houses,  and  tinged  with 
glowing  purple  the  distant  hills  of  Ingouville. 

This  calm,  quiet  spot  gradually  produced  upon  An- 
dras  the  salutary  effect  of  a  bath  after  a  night  of  feverish 
excitement.  His  reflections  became  less  bitter,  and, 
strange  to  relate,  it  was  rough  old  Yanski  Varhely,  who, 
by  his  tenderness  and  thoughtfulness,  led  his  friend  to 
a  more  resigned  frame  of  mind. 

Very  often,  after  nightfall,  would  Zilah  descend  with 
him  to  the  shore  below.  The  sea  lay  at  their  feet  a 
plain  of  silver,  and  the  moonbeams  danced  over  the 
waves  in  broken  lines  of  luminous  atoms;  boats  passed 
to  and  fro,  their  red  lights  flashing  like  glowworms;  and 
it  seemed  to  Andras  and  Varhely,  as  they  approached 
the  sea,  receding  over  the  wet,  gleaming  sands,  that  they 
were  walking  upon  quicksilver. 

As  they  strolled  and  talked  together  here,  it  seemed  to 
Andras  that  this  grief  was,  for  the  moment,  carried  away 
by  the  fresh,  salt  breeze;  and  these  two  men,  in  a  differ- 
ent manner  buffeted  by  fate,  resembled  two  wounded 
soldiers  who  mutually  aid  one  another  to  advance,  and 
not  to  fall  by  the  way  before  the  combat  is  over.  Yanski 
made  special  efforts  to  rouse  in  Andras  the  old  memories 
of  his  fatherland,  and  to  inspire  in  him  again  his  love  for 
Hungary. 

"Ah!  I  used  to  have  so  many  hopes  and  dreams  for 
her  future,"  said  Andras;  "but  idealists  have  no  chance 
in  the  world  of  to-day ;  so  now  I  am  a  man  who  expects 

[227] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

nothing  of  life  except  its  ending.  And  yet  I  would  like 
to  see  once  again  that  old  stone  castle  where  I  grew  up, 
full  of  hopes!  Hopes?  Bah!  pretty  bubbles,  that  is 
all!" 

One  morning  they  walked  along  the  cliffs,  past  the 
low  shanties  of  the  fishermen,  as  far  as  Havre;  and,  as 
they  were  sauntering  through  the  streets  of  the  city, 
Varhely  grasped  the  Prince's  arm,  and  pointed  to  an 
announcement  of  a  series  of  concerts  to  be  given  at 
Frascati  by  a  band  of  Hungarian  gipsies. 

"There,"  he  said,  "you  will  certainly  emerge  from 
your  retreat  to  hear  those  airs  once  more." 

"Yes,"  replied  Andras,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

That  evening  found  him  at  the  casino ;  but  his  wound 
seemed  to  open  again,  and  his  heart  to  be  grasped  as  in 
an  iron  hand,  as  he  listened  to  the  plaintive  cries  and 
moans  of  the  Tzigani  music.  Had  the  strings  of  the 
bows  played  these  czardas  upon  his  own  sinews,  laid 
bare,  he  would  not  have  trembled  more  violently.  Every 
note  of  the  well-known  airs  fell  upon  his  heart  like  a 
corrosive  tear,  and  Marsa,  in  all  her  dark,  tawny  beauty, 
rose  before  him.  The  Tzigani  played — now  the  waltzes 
which  Marsa  used  to  play;  then  the  slow,  sorrowful 
plaint  of  the  "  Song  of  Plevna ; ' '  and  then  the  air  of  Janos 
Ne*meth's,  the  heart-breaking  melody,  to  the  Prince  like 
the  lament  of  his  life :  The  World  holds  but  One  Fair 
Maiden.  And  at  every  note  he  saw  again  Marsa, 
the  one  love  of  his  existence. 

"Let  us  go!"  he  said  suddenly  to  Yanski. 

But,  as  they  were  about  to  leave  the  building,  they 
almost  ran  into  a  laughing,  merry  group,  led  by  the 

[228] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

little  Baroness  Dinati,  who  uttered  a  cry  of  delight  as 
she  perceived  Andras. 

"What,  you,  my  dear  Prince!  Oh,  how  glad  I  am 
to  see  you!" 

And  she  took  his  arm,  all  the  clan  which  accompanied 
her  stopping  to  greet  Prince  Zilah. 

"We  have  come  from  Etretat,  and  we  are  going  back 
there  immediately.  There  was  a  fair  at  Havre  in  the 
Quartier  Saint-Francois,  and  we  have  eaten  up  all  we 
could  lay  our  hands  on,  broken  all  Aunt  Sally's  pipes, 
and  purchased  all  the  china  horrors  and  hideous  pin- 
cushions we  could  find.  They  are  all  over  there  in  the 
break.  We  are  going  to  raffle  them  at  Etretat  for  the 
poor." 

The  Prince  tried  to  excuse  himself  and  move  on,  but 
the  little  Baroness  held  him  tight. 

"Why  don't  you  come  to  Etretat?  It  is  charming 
there.  We  don't  do  anything  but  eat  and  drink  and 
talk  scandal — Oh,  yes!  Yamada  sometimes  gives  us 
some  music.  Come  here,  Yamada!" 

The  Japanese  approached,  in  obedience  to  her  call, 
with  his  eternal  grin  upon  his  queer  little  face. 

"My  dear  Prince,"  rattled  on  the  Baroness,  "you 
don't  know,  perhaps,  that  Yamada  is  the  most  Parisian 
of  Parisians?  Upon  my  word,  these  Japanese  are  the 
Parisians  of  Asia!  Just  fancy  what  he  has  been  doing 
at  Etretat!  He  has  been  writing  a  French  operetta!" 

"Japanese!"  corrected  Yamada,  with  an  apologetic 
bow. 

"Oh,  Japanese!  Parisian  Japanese,  then!  At  all 
events,  it  is  very  funny,  and  the  title  is  Little  Moo- 

[**] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

Moo!  There  is  a  scene  on  board  a  flower-decked  boat! 
Oh,  it  is  so  amusing,  so  original,  so  natural !  and  a  de- 
lightful song  for  Little  Moo-Moo!" 

Then,  as  Zilah  glanced  at  Varhely,  uneasy,  and  anx- 
ious to  get  away,  the  Baroness  puckered  up  her  rosy  lips 
and  sang  the  stanzas  of  the  Japanese  maestro: 

"Le  beau  baba 
Le  bateau  beau 
Le  beau  bateau 
De  Kioto! 

"Cest  le  baba 
C'est  le  bateau 
Le  beau  bateau 
De  Kioto! 

Why,  sung  by  Judic  or  Theo,  it  would  create  a  furore ! 
All  Paris  would  be  singing 

"Le  beau  baba 
Le  beau  bateau — 

Oh,  by  the  way,"  she  cried,  suddenly  interrupting  her- 
self, "what  have  you  done  to  Jacquemin?  Yes,  my 
friend  Jacquemin?" 

"Jacquemin?"  repeated  Zilah;  and  he  thought  £>f  the 
garret  in  the  Rue  Rochechouart,  and  the  gentle,  fair- 
haired  woman,  who  was  probably  at  this  very  moment 
leaning  over  the  cribs  of  her  little  children — the  chil- 
dren of  Monsieur  Puck,  society  reporter  of  UActualite. 

"Yes!  Why,  Jacquemin  has  become  a  savage;  oh, 
indeed!  a  regular  savage!  I  wanted  to  bring  him  to 
Etretat;  but  no,  he  wouldn't  come.  It  seems  that  he  is 
married.  Jacquemin  married!  Isn't  it  funny?  He 

[230] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

didn't  seem  like  a  married  man!  Poor  fellow!  Well, 
when  I  invited  him,  he  refused ;  and  the  other  day,  when 
I  wanted  to  know  the  reason,  he  answered  me  (that  is 
why  I  speak  to  you  about  it),  'Ask  Prince  Zilah'!  So, 
tell  me  now,  what  have  you  done  to  poor  Jacquemin?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  Prince. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have;  you  have  changed  him!  He, 
who  used  to  go  everywhere  and  be  so  jolly,  now  hides 
himself  in  his  den,  and  is  never  seen  at  all.  Just  see 
how  disagreeable  it  is!  If  he  had  come  with  us,  he 
would  have  written  an  account  in  UActualite  of  Little 
Moo-Moo,  and  Yamada's  operetta  would  already  be 
celebrated : 

"Le  beau  bateau 
De  Kioto! 

So,"  continued  the  Baroness,  "when  I  return  to  Paris, 
I  am  going  to  hunt  him  up.  A  reporter  has  no  right  to 
make  a  bear  of  himself!" 

"Don't  disturb  him,  if  he  cares  for  his  home  how," 
said  Zilah,  gravely.  "Nothing  can  compensate  for 
one's  own  fireside,  if  one  loves  and  is  loved." 

At  the  first  words  of  the  Prince,  the  Baroness  sud- 
denly became  serious. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  dropping  his  arm  and 
holding  out  her  tiny  hand:  "please  forgive  me  for  hav- 
ing annoyed  you.  Oh,  yes,  I  see  it!  I  have  annoyed 
you.  But  be  consoled;  we  are  going  at  once,  and  then, 
you  know,  that  if  there  is  a  creature  who  loves  you,  re- 
spects you,  and  is  devoted  to  you,  it  is  this  little  idiot 
of  a  Baroness !  Good-night ! ' ' 

[231] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Good -night !"  said  Andras,  bowing  to  the  Baron- 
ess's friends,  Yamada  and  the  other  Parisian  exotics. 

Glad  to  escape,  Varhely  and  the  Prince  returned  home 
along  the  seashore.  Fragments  of  the  czardas  from  the 
illuminated  casino  reached  their  ears  above  the  swish  of 
the  waves.  Andras  felt  irritated  and  nervous.  Every- 
thing recalled  to  him  Marsa,  and  she  seemed  to  be  once 
more  taking  possession  of  his  heart,  as  a  vine  puts  forth 
fresh  tendrils  and  clings  again  to  the  oak  after  it  has 
been  torn  away. 

"She  also  suffers!"  he  said  aloud,  after  they  had 
walked  some  distance  in  silence. 

" Fortunately!"  growled  Varhely;  and  then,  as  if  he 
wished  to  efface  his  harshness,  he  added,  in  a  voice 
which  trembled  a  little:  "And  for  that  reason  she  is, 
perhaps,  not  unworthy  of  pardon." 

"Pardon!" 

This  cry  escaped  from  Zilah  in  accents  of  pain  which 
struck  Varhely  like  a  knife. 

"Pardon  before  punishing — the  other!"  exclaimed 
the  Prince,  angrily. 

The  other!  Yanski  Varhely  instinctively  clinched 
his  fist,  thinking,  with  rage,  of  that  package  of  letters 
which  he  had  held  in  his  hands,  and  which  he  might 
have  destroyed  if  he  had  known. 

It  was  true:  how  was  pardon  possible  while  Menko 
lived  ? 

No  word  more  was  spoken  by  either  until  they  reached 
the  villa;  then  Prince  Zilah  shook  Yanski' s  hand  and 
retired  to  his  chamber.  Lighting  his  lamp,  he  took  out 
and  read  and  re-read,  for  the  hundredth  time  perhaps, 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

certain  letters — letters  not  addressed  to  him — those 
letters  which  Varhely  had  handed  him,  and  with  which 
Michel  Menko  had  practically  struck  him  the  day  of 
his  marriage. 

Andras  had  kept  them,  reading  them  over  at  times 
with  an  eager  desire  for  further  suffering,  drinking  in 
this  species  of  poison  to  irritate  his  mental  pain  as  he 
would  have  injected  morphine  to  soothe  a  physical  one. 
These  letters  caused  him  a  sensation  analogous  to  that 
which  gives  repose  to  opium-eaters,  a  cruel  shock  at  first, 
sharp  as  the  prick  of  a  knife,  then,  the  pain  slowly  dying 
away,  a  heavy  stupor. 

The  whole  story  was  revived  in  these  letters  of  Marsa 
to  Menko : — all  the  ignorant,  credulous  love  of  the  young 
girl  for  Michel,  then  her  enthusiasm  for  love  itself,  rather 
than  for  the  object  of  her  love,  and  then,  again — for 
Menko  had  reserved  nothing,  but  sent  all  together — the 
bitter  contempt  of  Marsa,  deceived,  for  the  man  who 
had  lied  to  her. 

There  were,  in  these  notes,  a  freshness  of  sentiment 
and  a  youthful  credulity  which  produced  the  impression 
of  a  clear  morning  in  early  spring,  all  the  frankness  and 
faith  of  a  mind  ignorant  of  evil  and  destitute  of  guile; 
then,  in  the  later  ones,  the  spontaneous  outburst  of  a 
heart  which  believes  it  has  given  itself  forever,  because 
it  thinks  it  has  encountered  incorruptible  loyalty  and 
undying  devotion. 

As  he  read  them  over,  Andras  shook  with  anger 
against  the  two  who  had  deceived  him;  and  also,  and 
involuntarily,  he  felt  an  indefined,  timid  pity  for  the 
woman  who  had  trusted  and  been  deceived — a  pity  he 

[233] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

immediately  drove  away,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  himself, 
afraid  of  forgiving. 

"What  did  Varhely  mean  by  speaking  to  me  of  par- 
don?" he  thought.  "Am  I  yet  avenged?" 

It  was  this  constant  hope  that  the  day  would  come 
when  justice  would  be  meted  out  to  Menko's  treachery. 
The  letters  proved  conclusively  that  Menko  had  been 
Marsa's  lover;  but  they  proved,  at  the  same  time,  that 
Michel  had  taken  advantage  of  her  innocence  and  igno- 
rance, and  lied  outrageously  in  representing  himself  as 
free,  when  he  was  already  bound  to  another  woman. 

All  night  long  Andras  Zilah  sat  there,  inflicting  tor- 
ture upon  himself,  and  taking  a  bitter  delight  in  his  own 
suffering;  engraving  upon  his  memory  every  word  of 
love  written  by  Marsa  to  Michel,  as  if  he  felt  the  need  of 
fresh  pain  to  give  new  strength  to  his  hatred. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast,  Varhely  astonished 
him  by  announcing  that  he  was  going  away. 

"To  Paris?" 

"No,  to  Vienna,"  replied  Yanski,  who  looked  some- 
what paler  than  usual. 

"What  an  idea!  What  are  you  going  to  do  there, 
Varhely?" 

"Angelo  Valla  arrived  yesterday  at  Havre.  He  sent 
for  me  to  come  to  his  hotel  this  morning.  I  have  just 
been  there.  Valla  has  given  me  some  information  in 
regard  to  a  matter  of  interest  to  myself,  which  will  re- 
quire my  presence  at  Vienna.  So  I  am  going  there." 

Prince  Zilah  was  intimately  acquainted  with  the  Valla 
of  whom  Varhely  spoke;  he  had  been  one  of  the  wit- 
nesses of  his  marriage,  Valla  was  a  former  minister  of 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

Manin;  and,  since  the  siege  of  Venice,  he  had  lived 
partly  in  Paris  and  partly  in  Florence.  He  was  a  man 
for  whom  Andras  Zilah  had  the  greatest  regard. 

"When  do  you  go?"  asked  the  Prince  of  Varhely. 

"  In  an  hour.  I  wish  to  take  the  fast  mail  from  Paris 
this  evening." 

"Is  it  so  very  pressing,  then?" 

"Very  pressing,"  replied  Varhely.  "There  is  an- 
other to  whose  ears  the  affair  may  possibly  come,  and 
I  wish  to  get  the  start  of  him." 

"Farewell,  then,"  said  Andras,  considerably  sur- 
prised; "come  back  as  soon  as  you  can." 

He  was  astonished  at  the  almost  violent  pressure  of 
the  hand  which  Varhely  gave  him,  as  if  he  were  depart- 
ing for  a  very  long  journey. 

"Why  didn't  Valla  come  to  see  me?"  he  asked.  "He 
is  one  of  the  few  I  am  always  glad  to  see." 

"  He  had  no  time.  He  had  to  be  away  again  at  once, 
and  he  asked  me  to  excuse  him  to  you." 

The  Prince  did  not  make  any  further  attempt  to  find 
out  what  was  the  reason  of  his  friend's  sudden  flight, 
for  Varhely  was  already  descending  the  steps  of  the 
villa. 

Andras  then  felt  a  profound  sensation  of  loneliness, 
and  he  thought  again  of  the  woman  whom  his  imagina- 
tion pictured  haggard  and  wan  in  the  asylum  of  Vau- 
girard. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"WHAT  MATTERS  IT  HOW  MUCH  WE  SUFFER?" 

|WQ  hours  after  Varhely  had  gone,  a 
sort  of  feverish  attraction  drew  Prince 
Andras  to  the  spot  where,  the  night 
before,  he  had  listened  to  the  Tzigana 
airs. 

Again,  but  alone  this  time,  he  drank 
in  the  accents  of  the  music  of  his 
country,  and  sought  to  remember  the 
impression  produced  upon  him  when  Marsa  had  played 
this  air  or  that  one,  this  sad  song  or  that  czardas.  He 
saw  her  again  as  she  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer, 
watching  the  children  on  the  barge  as  they  threw  her 
kisses  of  farewell.  More  troubled  than  ever,  nervous 
and  suffering,  Zilah  returned  home  late  in  the  after- 
noon, opened  the  desk  where  he  kept  Marsa's  letters, 
and  one  by  one,  impelled  by  some  inexplicable  senti- 
ment, he  burned  them,  the  flame  of  the  candle  devour- 
ing the  paper,  whose  subtle  perfume  mounted  to  his 
nostrils  for  the  last  time  like  a  dying  sigh,  while  the 
wind  carried  off,  through  the  window  into  the  infinite, 
the  black  dust  of  those  fateful  letters,  those  remnants 
of  dead  passion  and  of  love  betrayed — and  the  past 
was  swept  away. 

The  sun  was  slowly  descending  in  an  atmosphere  of 
[236] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

fire,  while  toward  Havre  a  silvery  mist  over  the  hills  and 
shore  heralded  the  approach  of  chaste  Dian's  reign. 
The  reflections  of  the  sunset  tinged  with  red  and  orange 
the  fishing  boats  floating  over  the  calm  sea,  while  a  long 
fiery  streak  marked  the  water  on  the  horizon,  growing 
narrower  and  narrower,  and  changing  to  orange  and 
then  to  pale  yellow  as  the  disk  of  the  sun  gradually  dis- 
appeared, and  the  night  came  on,  enveloping  the  now 
inactive  city,  and  the  man  who  watched  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  last  fragments  of  a  detested  love,  of  the 
love  of  another,  of  a  love  which  had  torn  and  bruised 
his  heart.  And,  strange  to  say,  for  some  inexplicable 
reason,  Prince  Andras  Zilah  now  regretted  the  destruc- 
tion of  those  odious  letters.  It  seemed  to  him,  with  a 
singular  displacement  of  his  personality,  that  it  was 
something  of  himself,  since  it  was  something  of  her,  that 
he  had  destroyed.  He  had  hushed  that  voice  which 
said  to  another,  "I  love  you,"  but  which  caused  him  the 
same  thrill  as  if  she  had  murmured  the  words  for  him. 
They  were  letters  received  by  his  rival  which  the  wind 
carried  out,  an  impalpable  dust,  over  the  sea ;  and  he  felt 
— such  folly  is  the  human  heart  capable  of — the  bitter 
regret  of  a  man  who  has  destroyed  a  little  of  his  past. 

The  shadows  crept  over  him  at  the  same  time  that 
they  crept  over  the  sea. 

"What  matters  it  how  much  we  suffer,  or  how  much 
suffering  we  cause,"  he  murmured,  "when,  of  all  our 
loves,  our  hearts,  ourselves,  there  remains,  after  a  short 
lapse  of  time — what?  That!"  And  he  watched  the 
last  atom  of  burned  paper  float  away  in  the  deepening 
twilight, 

[237] 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    STRICKEN   SOUL 

|  IS  loneliness  now  weighed  heavily  upon 
Andras.  His  nerves  were  shaken  by 
the  memories  which  the  czardas  of  the 
Tzigani  musicians  had  evoked ;  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  place  was 
deserted  now  that  they  had  departed, 
and  Varhely  had  gone  with  them.  In 
the  eternal  symphony  of  the  sea,  the 
lapping  of  the  waves  upon  the  shingle  at  the  foot  of  the 
terrace,  one  note  was  now  lacking,  the  resonant  note  of 
the  czimbalom  yonder  in  the  gardens  of  Frascati.  The 
vibration  of  the  czimbalom  was  like  a  call  summoning 
up  the  image  of  Marsa,  and  this  image  took  invincible 
possession  of  the  Prince,  who,  with  a  sort  of  sorrowful 
anger  which  he  regarded  as  hatred,  tried  in  vain  to  drive 
it  away. 

What  was  the  use  of  remaining  at  Sainte-Adresse, 
when  the  memories  he  sought  to  flee  came  to  find  him 
there,  and  since  Marsa's  presence  haunted  it  as  if  she 
had  lived  there  by  his  side  ? 

He  quitted  Havre,  and  returned  to  Paris;  but  the 
very  evening  of  his  return,  in  the  bustle  and  movement 
of  the  Champs-Elysees,  the  long  avenue  dotted  with 
lights,  the  flaming  gas-jets  of  the  cafe  concerts,  the 

[238] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

bursts  of  music,  he  found  again,  as  if  the  Tzigana  were 
continually  pursuing  him,  the  same  phantom;  despite 
the  noise  of  people  and  carriages  upon  the  asphalt,  the 
echoes  of  the  "Song  of  Plevna,"  played  quite  near  him 
by  some  Hungarian  orchestra,  reached  him  as  upon  the 
seashore  at  Havre;  and  he  hastened  back  to  his  hotel, 
to  shut  himself  up,  to  hear  nothing,  see  nothing,  and  es- 
cape from  the  fantastic,  haunting  pursuit  of  this  inev- 
itable vision. 

He  could  not  sleep;  fever  burned  in  his  blood.  He 
rose,  and  tried  to  read ;  but  before  the  printed  page  he 
saw  continually  Marsa  Laszlo,  like  the  spectre  of  his 
happiness. 

"How  cowardly  human  nature  is!"  he  exclaimed, 
hurling  away  the  book.  "Is  it  possible  that  I  love  her 
still ?  Shall  I  love  her  forever?" 

And  he  felt  intense  self-contempt  at  the  temptation 
which  took  possession  of  him  to  see  once  more  Maisons- 
Lafitte,  where  he  had  experienced  the  most  terrible 
grief  of  his  life.  What  was  the  use  of  struggling?  He 
had  not  forgotten,  and  he  never  could  forget. 

If  he  had  been  sincere  with  himself,  he  would  have 
confessed  that  he  was  impelled  by  his  ever-living,  ever- 
present  love  toward  everything  which  would  recall 
Marsa  to  him,  and  that  a  violent,  almost  superhuman 
effort  was  necessary  not  to  yield  to  the  temptation. 

About  a  week  after  the  Prince's  return  to  Paris,  his 
valet  appeared  one  day  with  the  card  of  General  Vogot- 
zine.  It  was  on  Andras' slips  to  refuse  to  see  him;  but, 
in  reality,  the  General's  visit  caused  him  a  delight  which 
he  would  not  acknowledge  to  himself,  He  was  about  to 

[239] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

hear  of  her .  He  told  the  valet  to  admit  Vogotzine,  hypo- 
critically saying  to  himself  that  it  was  impossible,  dis- 
courteous, not  to  receive  him. 

The  old  Russian  entered,  timid  and  embarrassed, 
and  was  not  much  reassured  by  Zilah's  polite  but  cold 
greeting. 

The  General,  who  for  some  extraordinary  reason  had 
not  had  recourse  to  alcohol  to  give  him  courage,  took 
the  chair  offered  him  by  the  Prince.  He  was  a  little 
flushed,  not  knowing  exactly  how  to  begin  what  he  had 
to  say;  and,  being  sober,  he  was  terribly  afraid  of  ap- 
pearing like  an  idiot. 

"This  is  what  is  the  matter,"  he  said,  plunging  at 
once  in  medias  res.  "Doctor  Fargeas,  who  sent  me, 
might  have  come  himself;  but  he  thought  that  I,  being 
her  uncle,  should " 

"You  have  come  to  consult  me  about  Marsa,"  said 
Andras,  unconsciously  glad  to  pronounce  her  name. 

"Yes,"  began  the  General,  becoming  suddenly  in- 
timidated, "of — of  Marsa.  She  is  very  ill — Marsa  is. 
Very  ill.  Stupor,  Fargeas  says.  She  does  not  say  a 
word — nothing.  A  regular  automaton !  It  is  terrible  to 
see  her — terrible — terrible." 

He  raised  his  round,  uneasy  eyes  to  Andras,  who  was 
striving  to  appear  calm,  but  whose  lips  twitched  ner- 
vously. 

"It  is  impossible  to  rouse  her,"  continued  Vogotzine. 
"The  doctors  can  do  nothing.  There  is  no  hope  ex- 
cept in  an — an — an  experiment." 

"An  experiment?" 

f'Yes,  exactly,  exactly — an  experiment    You 
[240] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

he — he  wanted  to  know  if — (you  must  pardon  me  for 
what  I  am  about  to  propose;  it  is  Doctor  Fargeas's 
idea) — You  see — if — if — she  should  see — (I  suppose — 
these  are  not  my  words) — if  she  should  see  you  again — 
at  Doctor  Sims's  establishment — the  emotion — the— 
the — Well,  I  don't  know  exactly  what  Doctor  Fargeas 
does  hope; — but  I  have  repeated  to  you  his  words — I 
am  simply,  quite  simply,  his  messenger." 

"The  doctor,"  said  Andras,  calmly,  "would  like — 
your  niece  to  see  me  again?" 

"Yes,  yes;  and  speak  to  you.  You  see,  you  are  the 
only  one  for  whom " 

The  Prince  interrupted  the  General,  who  instantly  be- 
came as  mute  as  if  he  were  in  the  presence  of  the  Czar. 

"  It  is  well.  But  what  Doctor  Fargeas  asks  of  me  will 
cause  me  intense  suffering." 

Vogotzine  did  not  open  his  lips. 

"See  her  again?  He  wishes  to  revive  all  my  sorrow, 
then!" 

Vogotzine  waited,  motionless  as  if  on  parade. 

After  a  moment  or  two,  Andras  saying  no  more,  the 
General  thought  that  he  might  speak. 

"I  understand.  I  knew  very  well  what  your  answer 
would  be.  I  told  the  doctor  so;  but  he  replied,  'It  is  a 
question  of  humanity.  The  Prince  will  not  refuse."1 

Fargeas  must  have  known  Prince  Zilah's  character 
well  when  he  used  the  word  humanity.  The  Prince 
would  not  have  refused  his  pity  to  the  lowest  of  human 
beings;  and  so,  never  mind  what  his  sufferings  might 
be,  if  his  presence  could  do  any  good,  he  must  obey  the 
doctor. 

16  [  241  ] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"When  does  Doctor  Fargeas  wish  me  to  go?" 

"Whenever  you  choose.  The  doctor  is  just  now  at 
Vaugirard,  on  a  visit  to  his  colleague,  and " 

"Do  not  let  us  keep  him  waiting!" 

Vogotzine's  eyes  brightened. 

"Then  you  consent ?    You  will  go ? " 

He  tried  to  utter  some  word  of  thanks,  but  Andras 
cut  him  short,  saying: 

"I  will  order  the  carriage." 

"I  have  a  carriage,"  said  Vogotzine,  joyously.  "We 
can  go  at  once." 

Zilah  was  silent  during  the  drive;  and  Vogotzine 
gazed  steadily  out  of  the  window,  without  saying  a  word, 
as  the  Prince  showed  no  desire  to  converse. 

They  stopped  before  a  high  house,  evidently  built  in 
the  last  century,  and  which  was  probably  formerly  a 
convent.  The  General  descended  heavily  from  the 
coupe,  rang  the  bell,  and  stood  aside  to  let  Zilah  pass 
before  him. 

The  Prince's  emotion  was  betrayed  in  a  certain  stiff- 
ness of  demeanor,  and  in  his  slow  walk,  as  if  every 
movement  cost  him  an  effort.  He  stroked  his  mous- 
tache mechanically,  and  glanced  about  the  garden  they 
were  crossing,  as  if  he  expected  to  see  Marsa  at  once. 

Dr.  Fargeas  appeared  very  much  pleased  to  see 
the  Prince,  and  he  thanked  him  warmly  for  having 
come.  A  thin,  light-haired  man,  with  a  pensive  look 
and  superb  eyes,  accompanied  Fargeas,  and  the  phys- 
ician introduced  him  to  the  Prince  as  Dr.  Sims. 

Dr.  Sims  shared  the  opinion  of  his  colleague.  Having 
taken  the  invalid  away,  and  separated  her  from  every- 

*  242) 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

thing  that  could  recall  the  past,  the  physicians  thought, 
that,  by  suddenly  confronting  her  with  a  person  so 
dear  to  her  as  Prince  Zilah,  the  shock  and  emotion 
might  rouse  her  from  her  morbid  state. 

Fargeas  explained  to  the  Prince  why  he  had  thought 
it  best  to  transport  the  invalid  from  Maisons-Lafitte  to 
Vaugirard,  and  he  thanked  him  for  having  approved 
of  his  determination. 

Zilah  noticed  that  Fargeas,  in  speaking  of  Marsa, 
gave  her  no  name  or  title.  With  his  usual  tact,  the  doc- 
tor had  divined  the  separation;  and  he  did  not  call 
Marsa  the  Princess,  but,  in  tones  full  of  pity,  spoke  of 
her  as  the  invalid. 

"She  is  in  the  garden,"  said  Dr.  Sims,  when 
Fargeas  had  finished  speaking.  "Will  you  see  her 
now?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Prince,  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
slightly,  despite  his  efforts  to  control  it. 

"WTe  will  take  a  look  at  her  first;  and  then,  if  you 
will  be  so  kind,  show  yourself  to  her  suddenly.  It  is  only 
an  experiment  we  are  making.  If  she  does  not  recognize 
you,  her  condition  is  graver  than  I  think.  If  she  does 
recognize  you,  well,  I  hope  that  we  shall  be  able  to  cure 
her.  Come!" 

Dr.  Sims  motioned  the  Prince  to  precede  them. 

"Shall  I  accompany  you,  gentlemen?"  asked  Vogot- 
zine. 

"  Certainly,  General ! " 

"You  see,  I  don't  like  lunatics;  they  produce  a  singu- 
lar effect  upon  me;  they  don't  interest  me  at  all.  But 
still,  after  all,  she  is  my  niece!" 

[243] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

And  he  gave  a  sharp  pull  to  his  frock-coat,  as  he 
would  have  tightened  his  belt  before  an  assault. 

They  descended  a  short  flight  of  steps,  and  found 
themselves  in  a  large  garden,  with  trees  a  century  old, 
beneath  which  were  several  men  and  women  walking 
about  or  sitting  in  chairs. 

A  large,  new  building,  one  story  high,  appeared  at 
one  end  of  the  garden;  in  this  were  the  dormitories  of 
Dr.  Sims's  patients. 

"Are  those  people  insane?"  asked  Zilah,  pointing  to 
the  peaceful  groups. 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Sims;  "it  requires  a  stretch  of  the 
imagination  to  believe  it,  does  it  not  ?  You  can  speak 
to  them  as  we  pass  by.  All  these  here  are  harmless." 

"Shall  we  cross  the  garden?" 

"Our  invalid  is  below  there,  in  another  garden,  be- 
hind that  house." 

As  he  passed  by,  Zilah  glanced  curiously  at  these  poor 
beings,  who  bowed,  or  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the 
two  physicians.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  had  the 
happy  look  of  people  who  had  reached  the  desired  goal. 
Vogotzine,  coughing  nervously,  kept  close  to  the  Prince 
and  felt  very  ill  at  ease.  Andras,  on  the  contrary,  found 
great  difficulty  in  realizing  that  he  was  really  among 
lunatics. 

"See,"  said  Dr.  Sims,  pointing  out  an  old  gentle- 
man, dressed  in  the  style  of  1840,  like  an  old-fashioned 
lithograph  of  a  beau  of  the  time  of  Gavarni,  "that  man 
has  been  more  than  thirty-five  years  in  the  institution. 
He  will  not  change  the  cut  of  his  garments,  and  he  is 
very  careful  to  have  his  tailor  make  his  clothes  in  the 

[244] 


JWtlNCE  2ILAH 

Style  he  dressed  wheii  he  was  young.  He  is  very 
happy.  He  thinks  that  he  is  the  enchanter  Merlin,  and 
he  listens  to  Vivian,  who  makes  appointments  with  him 
under  the  trees." 

As  they  passed  the  old  man,  his  neck  imprisoned  in  a 
high  stock,  his  surtout  cut  long  arid  very  tight  in  the 
waist,  and  his  trousers  very  full  about  the  hips  and 
very  close  about  the  ankles,  he  bowed  politely. 

"Good -morning,  Doctor  Sims!  Good-morning, 
Doctor  Fargeas ! ' ' 

Then,  as  the  director  of  the  establishment  approached 
to  speak,  he  placed  a  finger  upotl  his  lips: 

"Hush,"  he  said.  "She  is  there!  Ddri't  speak;  or 
she  will  go  away."  And  he  pointed  with  a  sort  of  pas- 
sionate veneration  to  an  elm  where  Vivian  was  shut  up, 
and  whence  she  would  shortly  emerge. 

"Poor  devil!"  rnurmured  Vogdtzirie. 

This  was  not  what  Zilah  thought,  however.  He  won- 
dered if  this  happy  hallucination  which  had  lasted  so 
many  years,  these  eternal  love-scenes  with  Vivian,  love- 
scenes  which  never  grew  stale,  despite  the  years  and  the 
wrinkles,  were  not  the  ideal  form  of  happiness  for  a  be- 
ing condemned  to  this  earth.  This  poetical  monoma- 
niac lived  with  his  dreams  realized,  finding,  iri  an  asylum 
of  Vaugirard,  all  the  fascinations  and  chimeras  of  the 
Breton  land  of  golden  blossoms  arid  pink  heather,  all 
the  intoxicating,  languorous  charrri  of  the  forest  of 
Broeeliande. 

"He  has  within  his  grasp  what  Shakespeare  was  cdri- 
tent  only  to  dream  of.  Insanity  is,  perhaps,  simply  the 
ideal  realized." 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Ah!"  replied  Dr.  Fargeas,  "but  the  real  never 
loses  its  grip.  Why  does  this  monomaniac  preserve 
both  the  garments  of  his  youth,  which  prevent  him  from 
feeling  his  age,  and  the  dream  of  his  life,  which  consoles 
him  for  his  lost  reason?  Because  he  is  rich.  He  can 
pay  the  tailor  who  dresses  him,  the  rent  of  the  pavilion 
he  inhabits  by  himself,  and  the  special  servants  who 
serve  him.  If  he  were  poor,  he  would  suffer." 

"Then,"  said  Zilah,  "the  question  of  bread  comes  up 
everywhere,  even  in  insanity." 

"And  money  is  perhaps  happiness,  since  it  allows  of 
the  purchase  of  happiness." 

"Oh!"  said  the  Prince,  "for  me,  happiness  would 

"What?" 

"Forgetfulness." 

And  he  followed  with  his  eyes  Vivian's  lover,  who 
now  had  his  ear  glued  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  was 
listening  to  the  voice  which  spoke  only  to  him. 

"That  man  yonder,"  said  Dr.  Sims,  indicating  a 
man,  still  young,  who  was  coming  toward  them,  "is  a 
talented  writer  whose  novels  you  have  doubtless  read, 
and  who  has  lost  all  idea  of  his  own  personality.  Once 
a  great  reader,  he  now  holds  all  literature  in  intense  dis- 
gust; from  having  written  so  much,  he  has  grown  to 
have  a  perfect  horror  of  words  and  letters,  and  he  never 
opens  either  a  book  or  a  newspaper.  He  drinks  in  the 
fresh  air,  cultivates  flowers,  and  watches  the  trains  pass 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden." 

"Is  he  happy?"  asked  Andras. 

"Very  happy." 

[246] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"  Yes,  he  has  drank  of  the  waters  of  Lethe/'  rejoined 
the  Prince. 

"I  will  not  tell  you  his  name,"  whispered  Dr. 
Sims,  as  the  man,  a  thin,  dark-haired,  delicate-featured 
fellow,  approached  them;  "but,  if  you  should  speak  to 
him  and  chance  to  mention  his  name,  he  would  respond: 
'  Ah !  yes,  I  knew  him.  He  was  a  man  of  talent,  much 
talent.'  There  is  nothing  left  to  him  of  his  former 
life." 

And  Zilah  thought  again  that  it  was  a  fortunate  lot  to 
be  attacked  by  one  of  these  cerebral  maladies  where  the 
entire  being,  with  its  burden  of  sorrows,  is  plunged  into 
the  deep,  dark  gulf  of  oblivion. 

The  novelist  stopped  before  the  two  physicians. 

"The  mid -day  train  was  three  minutes  and  a  half 
late,"  he  said,  quietly:  "I  mention  the  fact  to  you,  doc- 
tor, that  you  may  have  it  attended  to.  It  is  a  very  seri- 
ous thing;  for  I  am  in  the  habit  of  setting  my  watch  by 
that  train." 

"I  will  see  to  it,"  replied  Dr.  Sims.  "By  the  way, 
do  you  want  any  books?" 

In  the  same  quiet  tone  the  other  responded : 

"What  for?" 

"To  read." 

"What  is  the  use  of  that?" 

"  Or  any  newspapers  ?    To  know 

"To  know  what?"  he  interrupted,  speaking  with  ex- 
treme volubility.  "No,  indeed!  It  is  so  good  to  know 
nothing,  nothing,  nothing!  Do  the  newspapers  an- 
nounce that  there  are  no  more  wars,  no  more  poverty, 
illness,  murders,  envy,  hatred  or  jealousy?  No!  The 

[247] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

newspapers  do  not  announce  that.  Then,  why  should 
I  read  the  newspapers?  Good-day,  gentlemen." 

The!  Prince  shuddered  at  the  bitter  logic  of  this  mad- 
man, speaking  with  the  shrill  distinctness  of  the  in- 
sane. But  Vogotzine  smiled. 

"  Why>  these  idiots  have  rather  good  sense,  after  all," 
he  remarked. 

When  they  reached  the  end  of  the  garden,  Dr. 
Sims  opened  a  gate  which  separated  the  male  from  the 
female  patients,  and  Andras  perceived  several  women 
walking  about  in  the  alleySj  some  of  them  alone,  and 
some  accompanied  by  attendants.  In  the  distance, 
separated  from  the  garden  by  a  ditch  and  a  high  wall, 
was  the  railway. 

Zilah  caught  his  breath  as  he  entered  the  enclosure, 
where  doubtless  among  the  female  forms  before  him 
was  that  of  the  one  he  had  loved.  He  turned  to  Dr. 
Sims  with  anxious  eyes,  and  asked : 

" Is  she  here?" 

"She  is  here,"  replied  the  doctor. 

The  Prince  hesitated  to  advance.  He  had  not  seen 
her  since  the  day  he  had  felt  tempted  to  kill  her  as  she 
lay  in  her  white  robes  at  his  feet.  He  wondered  if  it 
were  not  better  to  retrace  his  steps  and  depart  hastily 
without  seeing  her. 

"This  way,"  said  Fargeas.  "We  can  see  through 
the  bushes  without  being  seen,  can  we  not,  Sims?" 

"Yes,  doctor." 

Zilah  resigned  himself  to  his  fate;  and  followed  the 
physicians  without  saying  a  word;  he  could  hear  the 
panting  respiration  of  Vogotzine  trudging  along  behind 

[248] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

him.  All  at  once  the  Prince  felt  a  sensation  as  of  a 
heavy  hand  resting  upon  his  heart.  Fargeas  had  ex- 
claimed : 

"There  she  is!" 

He  pointed,  through  the  branches  of  the  lilac -bushes, 
to  two  women  who  were  approaching  with  slow  steps, 
one  a  light-haired  woman  in  a  nurse's  dress,  and  the 
other  in  black  garments,  as  if  in  mourning  for  her  own 
life,  Marsa  herself. 

Marsa!  She  was  coming  toward  Zilah;  in  a  mo- 
ment, he  would  be  able  to  touch  her,  if  he  wished, 
through  the  leaves!  Even  Vogotzine  held  his  breath. 

Zilah  eagerly  questioned  Marsa's  face,  as  if  to  read 
thereon  a  secret,  to  decipher  a  name — Menko's  or  his 
own.  Her  exquisite,  delicate  features  had  the  rigidity 
of  marble;  her  dark  eyes  were  staring  straight  ahead, 
like  two  spots  of  light,  where  nothing,  nothing 
was  reflected.  Zilah  shuddered  again;  she  alarmed 
him. 

Alarm  and  pity!  He  longed  to  thrust  aside  the 
bushes,  and  hasten  with  extended  arms  toward  the  pale 
vision  before  him.  It  was  as  if  the  moving  spectre  of 
his  love  were  passing  by.  But,  with  a  strong  effort  of 
will,  he  remained  motionless  where  he  was. 

Old  Vogotzine  seemed  very  ill  at  ease.  Dr.  Fargeas 
was  very  calm;  and,  after  a  questioning  glance  at  his 
colleague,  he  said  distinctly  to  the  Prince : 

"Now  you  must  show  yourself!" 

The  physician's  order,  far  from  displeasing  Zilah, 
was  like  music  in  his  ears.  He  was  beginning  to  doubt, 
if,  after  all,  Fargeas  intended  to  attempt  the  experj- 


JULES  CLARETIE 

ment.  He  longed,  with  keen  desire,  to  speak  to  Marsa; 
to  know  if  his  look,  his  breath,  like  a  puff  of  wind  over 
dying  ashes,  would  not  rekindle  a  spark  of  life  in  those 
dull,  glassy  eyes. 

What  was  she  thinking  of,  if  she  thought  at  all? 
What  memory  vacillated  to  and  fro  in  that  vacant 
brain  ?  The  memory  of  himself,  or  of — the  other  ?  He 
must  know,  he  must  know! 

"This  way,"  said  Dr.  Sims.  "We  will  go  to  the 
end  of  the  alley,  and  meet  her  face  to  face." 

"Courage!"  whispered  Fargeas. 

Zilah  followed;  and,  in  a  few  steps,  they  reached  the 
end  of  the  alley,  and  stood  beneath  a  clump  of  leafy 
trees.  The  Prince  saw,  coming  to  him,  with  a  slow  but 
not  heavy  step,  Marsa — no,  another  Marsa,  the  spectre 
or  statue  of  Marsa. 

Fargeas  made  a  sign  to  Vogotzine,  and  the  Russian 
and  the  two  doctors  concealed  themselves  behind  the 
trees. 

Zilah,  trembling  with  emotion,  remained  alone  in  the 
middle  of  the  walk. 

The  nurse  who  attended  Marsa,  had  doubtless  re- 
ceived instructions  from  Dr.  Sims;  for,  as  she  per- 
ceived the  Prince,  she  fell  back  two  or  three  paces,  and 
allowed  Marsa  to  go  on  alone. 

Lost  in  her  stupor,  the  Tzigana  advanced,  her  dark 
hair  ruffled  by  the  wind;  and,  still  beautiful  although 
so  thin,  she  moved  on,  without  seeing  anything,  her  lips 
closed  as  if  sealed  by  death,  until  she  was  not  three  feet 
from  Zilah. 

He  stood  waiting,  his  blue  eyes  devouring  her  with  a 
[250] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

look,  in  which  there  were  mingled  love,  pity,  and  anger. 
When  the  Tzigana  reached  him,  and  nearly  ran  into 
him  in  her  slow  walk,  she  stopped  suddenly,  like  an 
automaton.  The  instinct  of  an  obstacle  before  her  ar- 
rested her,  and  she  stood  still,  neither  recoiling  nor 
advancing. 

A  few  steps  away,  Dr.  Fargeas  and  Dr.  Sims  studied 
her  stony  look,  in  which  there  was  as  yet  neither  thought 
nor  vision. 

Still  enveloped  in  her  stupor,  she  stood  there,  her 
eyes  riveted  upon  Andras.  Suddenly,  as  if  an  invisible 
knife  had  been  plunged  into  her  heart,  she  started  back. 
Her  pale  marble  face  became  transfigured,  and  an  ex- 
pression of  wild  terror  swept  across  her  features;  shak- 
ing with  a  nervous  trembling,  she  tried  to  call  out,  and 
a  shrill  cry,  which  rent  the  air,  burst  from  her  lips,  half 
open,  like  those  of  a  tragic  mask.  Her  two  arms  were 
stretched  out  with  the  hands  clasped;  and,  falling  upon 
her  knees,  she — whose  light  of  reason  had  been  extin- 
guished, who  for  so  many  days  had  only  murmured  the 
sad,  singing  refrain:  "I  do  not  know;  I  do  not  know!" 
— faltered,  in  a  voice  broken  with  sobs:  " Forgive! 
Forgive!" 

Then  her  face  became  livid,  and  she  would  have 
fallen  back  unconscious  if  Zilah  had  not  stooped  over 
and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

Dr.  Sims  hastened  forward,  and,  aided  by  the  nurse, 
relieved  him  of  his  burden. 

Poor  Vogotzine  was  as  purple  as  if  he  had  had  a 
stroke  of  apoplexy. 

"But,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Prince,  his  eyes  burning 


JULES  CLARETIE 

with  hot  tears,  "it  will  be  horrible  if  we  have  killed 
her!" 

"No,  no,"  responded  Fargeas;  "we  have  only  killed 
her  stupor.  Now  leave  her  to  us.  Am  I  not  right,  my 
dear  $ims  ?  She  can  and  must  be  cured ! " 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

'LET  THE  DEAD  PAST  BURY  ITS  DEAD" 

JRINCE  ANDRAS  had  heard  no  news 
of  Varhely  for  a  long  time.  He  only 
knew  that  the  Count  was  in  Vienna. 

Yanski  had  told  the  truth  when  he 
said  that  he  had  been  summoned 
away  by  his  friend,  Angelo  Valla. 

They  were  very  much  astonished, 
at  the  Austrian  ministry  of  foreign 
Fairs,  to  see  Count  Yanski  Varhe'ly,  who,  doubt- 
less, had  come  from  Paris  to  ask  some  favor  of  the 
minister.  The  Austrian  diplomats  smiled  as  they  heard 
the  name  of  the  old  soldier  of  '48  and  '49.  So,  the  fa- 
mous fusion  of  parties  proclaimed  in  1875  continued! 
Every  day  some  sulker  of  former  times  rallied  to  the 
standard.  Here  was  this  Varhely,  who,  at  one  time,  if 
he  had  set  foot  in  Austria-Hungary,  would  have  been 
speedily  cast  into  the  Charles  barracks,  the  jail  of  po- 
litical prisoners,  now  sending  in  his  card  to  the  minister 
of  the  Emperor;  and  doubtless  the  minister  and  the  old 
commander  of  hussars  would,  some  evening,  together 
pledge  the  new  star  of  Hungary,  in  a  beaker  of  rosy 
Crement! 

"These  are  queer  days  we  live  in!"  thought  the  Aus- 
trian diplomats. 

1*53] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

The  minister,  of  whom  Yanski  Varhely  demanded  an 
audience,  his  Excellency  Count  Josef  Ladany,  had  for- 
merly commanded  a  legion  of  Magyar  students,  great- 
ly feared  by  the  grenadiers  of  Paskiewisch,  in  Hungary. 
The  soldiers  of  Josef  Ladany,  after  threatening  to 
march  upon  Vienna,  had  many  times  held  in  check  the 
grenadiers  and  Cossacks  of  the  field-marshal.  Spirited 
and  enthusiastic,  his  fair  hair  floating  above  his  youth- 
ful forehead  like  an  aureole,  Ladany  made  war  like  a 
patriot  and  a  poet,  reciting  the  verses  of  Petcefi  about 
the  camp-fires,  and  setting  out  for  battle  as  for  a  ball. 
He  was  magnificent  (Varhely  remembered  him  well)  at 
the  head  of  his  students,  and  his  floating,  yellow  mous- 
taches had  caused  the  heart  of  more  than  one  little 
Hungarian  patriot  to  beat  more  quickly. 

Varhely  would  experience  real  pleasure  in  meeting 
once  more  his  old  companion  in  arms.  He  remembered 
one  afternoon  in  the  vineyards,  when  his  hussars,  de- 
spite the  obstacles  of  the  vines  and  the  irregular  ground, 
had  extricated  Ladany 's  legion  from  the  attack  of  two 
regiments  of  Russian  infantry.  Joseph  Ladany  was 
standing  erect  upon  one  of  his  cannon  for  which  the 
gunners  had  no  more  ammunition,  and,  with  drawn 
sabre,  was  rallying  his  companions,  who  were  begin- 
ning to  give  way  before  the  enemy.  Ah,  brave  Ladany ! 
With  what  pleasure  would  Varhely  grasp  his  hand ! 

The  former  leader  had  doubtless  aged  terribly — he 
must  be  a  man  of  fifty-five  or  fifty-six,  to-day;  but 
Varhely  was  sure  that  Joseph  Ladany,  now  become 
minister,  had  preserved  his  generous,  ardent  nature  of 
other  days, 

[354] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

As  he  crossed  the  antechambers  and  lofty  halls  which 
led  to  the  minister's  office,  Varhely  still  saw,  in  his 
mind's  eye,  Ladany,  sabre  in  hand,  astride  of  the  smok- 
ing cannon. 

An  usher  introduced  him  into  a  large,  severe-looking 
room,  with  a  lofty  chimney-piece,  above  which  hung  a 
picture  of  the  Emperor-King  in  full  military  uniform. 
Varhely  at  first  perceived  only  some  large  armchairs, 
and  an  enormous  desk  covered  with  books;  but,  in  a 
moment,  from  behind  the  mass  of  volumes,  a  man 
emerged,  smiling,  and  with  outstretched  hand:  the  old 
hussar  was  amazed  to  find  himself  in  the  presence  of  a 
species  of  English  diplomat,  bald,  with  long,  gray  side- 
whiskers  and  shaven  lip  and  chin,  and  scrupulously 
well  dressed. 

Yanski's  astonishment  was  so  evident  that  Josef 
Ladany  said,  still  smiling: 

"Well,  don't  you  recognize  me,  my  dear  Count?" 
His  voice  was  pleasant,  and  his  manner  charming;  but 
there  was  something  cold  and  politic  in  his  whole  ap- 
pearance which  absolutely  stupefied  Varhely.  If  he 
had  seen  him  pass  in  the  street,  he  would  never  have 
recognized,  in  this  elegant  personage,  the  young  man, 
with  yellow  hair  and  long  moustaches,  who  sang  war- 
songs  as  he  sabred  the  enemy. 

And  yet  it  was  indeed  Ladany ;  it  was  the  same  clear 
eye  which  had  once  commanded  his  legion  with  a  single 
look ;  but  the  eye  was  often  veiled  now  beneath  a  low- 
ered eyelid,  and  only  now  and  then  did  a  glance  shoot 
forth  which  seemed  to  penetrate  a  man's  most  secret 
thoughts.  The  soldier  had  become  the  diplomat. 

[255] 


"I  had  forgotten  that  thirty  years  have  passed!" 
thought  Varhely,  a  little  saddened. 

Count  Ladany  made  his  old  comrade  sit  down  in  one 
of  the  armchairs,  and  questioned  him  smilingly  as  to 
his  life,  his  friendships,  Paris,  Prince  Zilah,  and  led 
him  gradually  and  gracefully  to  confide  what  he,  Var- 
hely, had  come  to  ask  of  the  minister  of  the  Emperor  of 
Austria. 

Varhely  felt  more  reassured.  Josef  Ladany  seemed 
to  him  to  have  remained  morally  the  same.  The  mous- 
tache had  been  cut  off,  the  yellow  hair  had  fallen ;  but 
the  heart  was  still  young  and  without  doubt  Hungarian. 

"You  can,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "render  me  a  service, 
a  great  service.  I  have  never  before  asked  anything  of 
anybody;  but  I  have  taken  this  journey  expressly  to 
see  you,  and  to  ask  you,  to  beg  you  rather,  to 

"Go  on,  my  dear  Count.  What  you  desire  will  be 
realized,  I  hope." 

But  his  tone  had  already  become  colder,  or  perhaps 
simply  more  official. 

"Well,"  continued  Varhely,  "what  I  have  come  to 
ask  of  you  is,  in  memory  of  the  time  when  we  were 
brothers  in  arms"  (the  minister  started  slightly,  and 
stroked  his  whiskers  a  little  nervously),  "the  liberty  of  a 
certain  man,  of  a  man  whom  you  know." 

"Ah!  indeed!"  said  Count  Josef. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  crossed  one  leg  over  the 
other,  and,  through  his  half-opened  eyelids,  examined 
Varhely,  who  looked  him  boldly  in  the  face. 

The  contrast  between  these  two  men  was  striking; 
the  soldier  with  his  hair  and  moustache  whitened  in  the 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

harness,  and  the  elegant  government  official  with  his 
polished  manners;  two  old-time  companions  who  had 
heard  the  whistling  of  the  same  balls. 

"This  is  my  errand,"  said  Varhely.  "I  have  the 
greatest  desire  that  one  of  our  compatriots,  now  a  pris- 
oner in  Warsaw,  I  think — at  all  events,  arrested  at  War- 
saw a  short  time  ago — should  be  set  at  liberty.  It  is  of 
the  utmost  importance  to  me,"  he  added,  his  lips  turn- 
ing almost  as  white  as  his  moustache. 

"Oh!"  said  the  minister.  "I  fancy  I  know  whom 
you  mean." 

"  Count  Menko." 

"  Exactly !  Menko  was  arrested  by  the  Russian  police 
on  his  arrival  at  the  house  of  a  certain  Labanoff,  or  La- 
danoff — almost  my  name  in  Russian.  This  Labanoff, 
who  had  lately  arrived  from  Paris,  is  suspected  of  a 
plot  against  the  Czar.  He  is  not  a  nihilist,  but  simply 
a  malcontent;  and,  besides  that,  his  brain  is  not  alto- 
gether right.  In  short,  Count  Menko  is  connected  in 
some  way,  I  don't  know  how,  with  this  Labanoff.  He 
went  to  Poland  to  join  him,  and  the  Russian  police 
seized  him.  I  think  myself  that  they  were  quite  right 
in  their  action." 

"Possibly,"  said  Varhely;  "but  I  do  not  care  to  dis- 
cuss the  right  of  the  Russian  police  to  defend  themselves 
or  the  Czar.  What  I  have  come  for  is  to  ask  you  to  use 
your  influence  with  the  Russian  Government  to  obtain 
Menko' s  release." 

"Are  you  very  much  interested  in  Menko?" 

"Very  much,"  replied  Yanski,  hi  a  tone  which  struck 
the  minister  as  rather  peculiar. 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Then,"  asked  Count  Ladany  with  studied  slow- 
ness, "you  would  like?— 

"A  note  from  you  to  the  Russian  ambassador,  de- 
manding Menko's  release.  Angelo  Valla — you  know 
him — Manin's  former  minister— 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Count  Josef,  with  his  enigmat- 
ical smile. 

"Valla  told  me  of  Menko's  arrest.  I  knew  that 
Menko  had  left  Paris,  and  I  was  very  anxious  to  find 
where  he  had  gone.  Valla  learned,  at  the  Italian  em- 
bassy in  Paris,  of  the  affair  of  this  Labanoff  and  of  the 
real  or  apparent  complicity  of  Michel  Menko;  and  he 
told  me  about  it.  When  we  were  talking  over  the  means 
of  obtaining  the  release  of  a  man  held  by  Muscovite 
authority,  which  is  not  an  easy  thing,  I  know,  we 
thought  of  you,  and  I  have  come  to  your  Excellency  as 
I  would  have  gone  to  the  chief  of  the  Legion  of  Students 
to  demand  his  aid  in  a  case  of  danger!" 

Yanski  Varhely  was  no  diplomat;  and  his  manner  of 
appealing  to  the  memories  of  the  past  was  excessively 
disagreeable  to  the  minister,  who,  however,  allowed  no 
signs  of  his  annoyance  to  appear. 

Count  Ladany  was  perfectly  well  acquainted  with  the 
Warsaw  affair.  As  an  Hungarian  was  mixed  up  in  it, 
and  an  Hungarian  of  the  rank  and  standing  of  Count 
Menko,  the  Austro-Hungarian  authorities  had  imme- 
diately been  advised  of  the  whole  proceeding.  There 
were  probably  no  proofs  of  actual  complicity  against 
Menko;  but,  as  Josef  Ladany  had  said,  it  seemed  evi- 
dent that  he  had  come  to  Poland  to  join  Labanoff.  An 
address  given  to  Menko  by  Labanoff  had  been  found, 

[258] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

and  both  were  soon  to  depart  for  St.  Petersburg.  La- 
banoff  had  some  doubtful  acquaintances  in  the  Rus- 
sian army:  several  officers  of  artillery,  who  had  been 
arrested  and  sent  to  the  mines,  were  said  to  be  his 
friends. 

"The  matter  is  a  grave  one,"  said  the  Count.  "We 
can  scarcely,  for  one  particular  case,  make  our  relations 
more  strained  with  a — a  friendly  nation,  relations 
which  so  many  others — I  leave  you  to  divine  who,  my 
dear  Varhely — strive  to  render  difficult.  And  yet,  I 
would  like  to  oblige  you;  I  would,  I  assure  you." 

"If  Count  Menko  is  not  set  at  liberty,  what  will  hap- 
pen to  him?"  asked  Yanski. 

"Hmm — he  might,  although  a  foreigner,  be  forced  to 
take  a  journey  to  Siberia." 

" Siberia!  That  is  a  long  distance  off,  and  few  return 
from  that  journey,"  said  Varhely,  his  voice  becoming 
almost  hoarse.  "I  would  give  anything  in  the  world  if 
Menko  were  free!" 

"It  would  have  been  so  easy  for  him  not  to  have  been 
seized  by  the  Russian  police." 

"Yes;  but  he  is.  And,  I  repeat,  I  have  come  to  you 
to  demand  his  release.  Damn  it!  Such  a  demand  is 
neither  a  threat  nor  a  casus  belli." 

The  minister  calmed  the  old  hussar  with  a  gesture. 

"No,"  he  replied,  clicking  his  tongue  against  the  roof 
of  his  mouth;  "but  it  is  embarrassing,  embarrassing! 
Confound  Menko!  He  always  was  a  featherbrain! 
The  idea  of  his  leaving  diplomacy  to  seek  adventures! 
He  must  know,  however,  that  his  case  is— what  shall  I 
say? — embarrassing,  very  embarrassing.  I  don't  sup- 

[259] 


pose  he  had  any  idea  of  conspiring.  He  is  a  malcontent, 
this  Meriko,  a  malcontent!  He  would  have  made  his 
mark  in  our  embassies.  The  devil  take  him!  Ah!  my 
dear  Count,  it  is  very  embarrassing,  very  embarrassing!" 

The  minister  uttered  these  words  in  a  calm,  courte- 
ous, polished  manner,  even  when  he  said  "The  devil 
take  him!"  He  then  went  on  to  say,  that  he  could  riot 
make  Varhely  an  absolute  promise ;  he  would  look  Over 
the  papers  in  the  affair,  telegraph  to  Warsaw  and  St. 
Petersburg,  make  a  rapid  study  of  what  he  called  again 
the  "very  embarrassing"  case  of  Michel  Menko,  and 
give  Varhely  an  answer  within  twenty-four  hours. 

"That  will  give  you  a  chance  to  take  a  look  at  our 
city,  my  dear  Count.  Vienna  has  changed  very  much. 
Have  you  seen  the  opera-house?  It  is  superb.  Hans 
Makart  is  just  exhibiting  a  new  picture.  Be  sure  to 
see  it,  and  visit  his  studio,  too;  it  is  well  worth  examin- 
ing. I  have  no  need  to  tell  you  that  I  am  at  your  ser- 
vice to  act  as  your  cicerone,  and  show  you  all  the 
sights." 

"Are  any  of  our  old  friends  settled  here?"  asked 
Varhely. 

''Yes,  yes,"  said  the  minister,  softly.  "But  they  are 
deputies,  university  professors,  or  councillors  of  the  ad- 
ministration. All  changed!  all  changed!" 

Then  Varhe*ly  wished  to  know  if  certain  among  them 
whom  he  had  not  forgotten  had  "changed,"  as  the  min- 
ister said. 

"Where  is  Armand  Bitto?" 

"Dead.    He  died  very  poor." 

"And  Arpad  Ovody,  Georgei's  lieutenant,  who  wds 
[  260  ] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

so  brave  at  the  assault  of  Buda  ?    I  thought  that  he  was 
killed  with  that  bullet  through  his  cheek." 

"Ovody?  He  is  at  the  head  of  the  Magyar  Bank, 
and  is  charged  by  the  ministry  with  the  conversion  of 
the  six  per  cent.  Hungarian  loan.  He  is  intimately  con- 
nected with  the  Rothschild  group.  He  has  I  don't 
know  how  many  thousand  florins  a  year,  and  a  castle 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Presburg.  A  great  collector  of 
pictures,  and  a  very  amiable  man!" 

"And  Hieronymis  Janos,  who  wrote  such  eloquent 
proclamations  and  calls  to  arms?  Kossuth  was  very 
fond  of  him." 

"He  is  busy,  with  Maurice  Jokai,  preparing  a  great 
book  upon  the  Austro-Hungarian  monarchy,  a  book 
patronized  by  the  Archduke  Rudolph.  He  will  doubt- 
less edit  the  part  relative  to  the  kingdom  of  Saint  Ste- 
phen." 

"Ha!  ha!  He  will  have  a  difficult  task  when  he 
comes  to  the  recital  of  the  battle  at  Raab  against  Fran- 
cis Joseph  in  person!  He  commanded  at  Raab  him- 
self, as  you  must  remember  well." 

"Yes,  he  did,  I  remember,"  said  the  minister.  Then, 
with  a  smile,  he  added:  "Bah!  History  is  written,  not 
made.  Hieronymis  Janos' s  book  will  be  very  good, 
very  good!" 

"  I  don't  doubt  it.  What  about  Ferency  Szilogyi  ?  Is 
he  also  writing  books  under  the  direction  of  the  Arch- 
duke  Rudolph?" 

"No!  no!  Fe"rency  Szilogyi  is  president  of  the  court 
of  assizes,  and  a  very  good  magistrate  he  is." 

"He!  an  hussar?" 

[261] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Oh!  the  world  changes!  His  uniform  sleeps  in 
some  chest,  preserved  in  camphor.  Szilogyi  has  only 
one  fault:  he  is  too  strongly  anti-Semitic." 

"He.'  a  Liberal?" 

"He  detests  the  Israelites,  and  he  allows  it  to  be  seen 
a  little  too  much.  He  embarrasses  us  sometimes.  But 
there  is  one  extenuating  circumstance — he  has  married 
a  Jewess!" 

This  was  said  in  a  light,  careless,  humorously  scep- 
tical tone. 

"On  the  whole,"  concluded  the  minister,  "Armand 
Bitto,  who  is  no  longer  in  this  world,  is  perhaps  the 
most  fortunate  of  all." 

Then,  turning  to  Yanski  with  his  pleasant  smile,  and 
holding  out  his  delicate,  well-kept  hand,  which  had 
once  brandished  the  sabre,  he  said: 

"My  dear  Varhely,  you  will  dine  with  me  to-morrow, 
will  you  not?  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  see  you  again! 
To-morrow  I  shall  most  probably  give  you  an  answer  to 
your  request — a  request  which  I  am  happy,  very  happy, 
to  take  into  consideration.  I  wish  also  to  present  you  to 
the  Countess.  But  no  allusions  to  the  past  before  her! 
She  is  a  Spaniard,  and  she  would  not  understand  the 
old  ideas  very  well.  Kossuth,  Bern,  and  Georgei  would 
astonish  her,  astonish  her!  I  trust  to  your  tact,  Varhely. 
And  then  it  is  so  long  ago,  so  very  long  ago,  all  that. 
Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead!  Is  it  understood ?" 

Yanski  Varhely  departed,  a  little  stunned  by  this  in- 
terview. He  had  never  felt  so  old,  so  out  of  the  fashion, 
before.  Prince  Zilah  and  he  now  seemed  to  him  like  two 
ancestors  of  the  present  generation — Don  Quixotes,  ro- 

[262] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

manticists,  imbeciles.  The  minister  was,  as  Jacquemin 
would  have  said,  a  sly  dog,  who  took  the  times  as  he 
found  them,  and  left  spectres  in  peace.  Well,  perhaps 
he  was  right ! 

"Ah,  well,"  thought  the  old  hussar,  with  an  odd 
smile,  "there  is  the  age  of  moustaches  and  the  age  of 
whiskers,  that  is  all.  Ladany  has  even  found  a  way  to 
become  bald:  he  was  born  to  be  a  minister!" 

It  little  mattered  to  him,  however,  this  souvenir  of  his 
youth  found  with  new  characteristics.  If  Count  Josef 
Ladany  rescued  Menko  from  the  police  of  the  Czar, 
and,  by  setting  him  free,  delivered  him  to  him,  Varhely, 
all  was  well.  By  entering  the  ministry,  Ladany  would 
thus  be  at  least  useful  for  something. 


[263] 


CHAPTER  XXX 

;TO   SEEK  FORGETFULNESS 


negotiations  with  Warsaw,  however, 
detained  Yanski  Varhe"ly  at  Vienna 
longer  than  he  wished.  Count  Josef 
evidently  went  zealously  to  work  to 
obtain  from  the  Russian  Government 
Menko's  release.  He  had  promised 
Varhely,  the  evening  he  received  his 
old  comrade  at  dinner,  that  he  would 
put  all  the  machinery  at  work  to  obtain  the  fulfilment 
of  his  request.  "I  only  ask  you,  if  I  attain  the  desired 
result,  that  you  will  do  something  to  cool  off  that  hot- 
headed Menko.  A  second  time  he  would  not  escape 
Siberia." 

Varhely  had  made  no  reply;  but  the  very  idea  that 
Michel  Menko  might  be  free  made  his  head  swim. 
There  was,  in  the  Count's  eagerness  to  obtain  Menko's 
liberty,  something  of  the  excitement  of  a  hunter  track- 
ing his  prey.  He  awaited  Michel's  departure  from  the 
fortress  as  if  he  were  a  rabbit  in  its  burrow. 

"If  he  is  set  at  liberty,  I  suppose  that  we  shall  know 
where  he  goes,"  he  said  to  the  minister. 

"It  is  more  than  probable  that  the  government  of  the 
Czar  will  trace  his  journey  for  him.  You  shall  be  in- 
formed." 

[264] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

Count  Ladany  did  not  seek  to  know  for  what  pur- 
pose Varhely  demanded,  with  such  evident  eagerness, 
this  release.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  his  old  brother- 
in-arms  desired  it,  and  that  it  was  possible. 

"You  see  how  everything  is  for  the  best,  Varhe'ly," 
he  said  to  him  one  morning.  "Perhaps  you  blamed  me 
when  you  learned  that  I  had  accepted  a  post  from  Aus- 
tria. Well,  you  see,  if  I  did  not  serve  the  Emperor,  I 
could  not  serve  you!" 

During  his  sojourn  at  Vienna,  Varhe'ly  kept  himself 
informed,  day  by  day,  as  to  what  was  passing  in  Paris. 
He  did  not  write  to  Prince  Zilah,  wishing,  above  every- 
thing, to  keep  his  errand  concealed  from  him ;  but  An- 
gelo  Valla,  who  had  remained  in  France,  wrote  or  tele- 
graphed whatever  happened  to  the  Prince. 

Marsa  Laszlo  was  cured ;  she  had  left  Dr.  Sims's  in- 
stitution, and  returned  to  the  villa  of  Maisons-Lafitte. 

The  poor  girl  came  out  of  her  terrible  stupor  with  the 
distaste  to  take  up  the  thread  of  life  which  sometimes 
comes  after  a  night  of  forgetfulness  in  sleep.  This 
stupor,  which  might  have  destroyed  her,  and  the  fever 
which  had  shaken  her,  seemed  to  her  sweet  and  enviable 
now  compared  to  this  punishment :  To  live !  To  live 
and  think! 

And  yet — yes,  she  wished  to  live  to  once  more  see  An- 
dras,  whose  look,  fixed  upon  her,  had  rekindled  the  ex- 
tinct intellectual  flame  of  her  being.  She  wished  to  live, 
now  that  her  reason  had  returned  to  her,  to  live  to  wrest 
from  the  Prince  a  word  of  pardon.  It  could  not  be  pos- 
sible that  her  existence  was  to  end  with  the  malediction 
of  this  man,  It  seemed  to  her,  that,  if  she  should  ever 

[265] 


JULES  CLATIETIE 

see  him  face  to  face,  she  would  find  words  of  desperate 
supplication  which  would  obtain  her  absolution. 

Certainly — she  repeated  it  bitterly  every  hour,  now 
that  the  punishment  of  thinking  and  feeling  had  been 
inflicted  upon  her — she  had  acted  infamously,  been 
almost  as  criminal  as  Menko,  by  her  silence  and  deceit 
— her  deceit!  She,  who  hated  a  lie!  But  she  longed  to 
make  the  Prince  understand  that  the  motive  of  her  con- 
duct was  the  love  which  she  had  for  him.  Yes,  her  love 
alone !  There  was  no  other  reason,  no  other,  for  her  un- 
pardonable treachery.  He  did  not  think  it  now,  with- 
out any  doubt.  He  must  accuse  her  of  some  base  calcu- 
lation or  vile  intrigue.  But  she  was  certain  that,  if  she 
could  see  him  again,  she  would  prove  to  him  that  the 
only  cause  of  her  conduct  was  her  unquenchable  love 
for  him. 

"Let  him  only  believe  that,  and  then  let  him  fly  me 
forever,  if  he  likes!  Forever!  But  I  cannot  endure  to 
have  him  despise  me,  as  he  must!" 

It  was  this  hope  which  now  attached  her  to  life. 
After  her  return  to  Maisons-Lafitte  from  Vaugirard, 
she  would  have  killed  herself  if  she  had  not  so  desired 
another  interview  where  she  could  lay  bare  her  heart. 
Not  daring  to  appear  before  Andras,  not  even  thinking 
of  such  a  thing  as  seeking  him,  she  resolved  to  wait  some 
opportunity,  some  chance,  she  knew  not  what.  Sud- 
denly, she  thought  of  Yanski  Varhe*ly.  Through  Var- 
hely,  she  might  be  able  to  say  to  Andras  all  that  she 
wished  her  husband — her  husband!  the  very  word 
made  her  shudder  with  shame — to  know  of  the  reason 
of  her  crime,  She  wrote  to  the  old  Hungarian ;  but,  as 

[266] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

she  received  no  response,  she  left  Maisons-Lafitte  and 
went  to  Varhely's  house.  They  did  not  know  there, 
where  the  Count  was;  but  Monsieur  Angelo  Valla 
would  forward  any  letters  to  him. 

She  then  begged  the  Italian  to  send  to  Varhely  a  sort 
of  long  confession,  in  which  she  asked  his  aid  to  obtain 
from  the  Prince  the  desired  interview. 

The  letter  reached  Yanski  while  he  was  at  Vienna. 
He  answered  it  with  a  few  icy  words;  but  what  did  that 
matter  to  Marsa?  It  was  not  Varhely's  rancor  she 
cared  for,  but  Zilah's  contempt.  She  implored  him 
again,  in  a  letter  in  which  she  poured  out  her  whole 
soul,  to  return,  to  be  there  when  she  should  tell  the 
Prince  all  her  remorse — the  remorse  which  was  killing 
her,  and  making  of  her  detested  beauty  a  spectre. 

There  was  such  sincerity  in  this  letter,  wherein  a 
conscience  sobbed,  that,  little  by  little,  in  spite  of  his 
rough  exterior,  the  soldier,  more  accessible  to  emotion 
than  he  cared  to  have  it  appear,  was  softened,  and 
growled  beneath  his  moustache: 

"So!    So!    She  suffers.    Well,  that  is  something." 

He  answered  Marsa  that  he  would  return  when  he 
had  finished  a  work  he  had  vowed  to  accomplish;  and, 
without  explaining  anything  to  the  Tzigana,  he  added, 
at  the  end  of  his  letter,  these  words,  which,  enigmatical 
as  they  were,  gave  a  vague,  inexplicable  hope  to  Marsa : 
"And  pray  that  I  may  return  soon!" 

The  day  after  he  had  sent  this  letter  to  Maisons- 
Lafitte,  Varhely  received  from  Ladany  a  message  to 
come  at  once  to  the  ministry. 

On  his  arrival  there.  Count  Josef  handed  him  a  des- 


patch.  The  Russian  minister  of  foreign  affairs  tele- 
graphed to  his  colleague  at  Vienna,  that  his  Majesty 
the  Czar  consented  to  the  release  of  Count  Menko,  im- 
plicated in  the  Labanoff  affair.  Labanoff  would  prob- 
ably be  sent  to  Siberia  the  very  day  that  Count  Menko 
would  receive  a  passport  and  an  escort  to  the  frontier. 
Count  Menko  had  chosen  Italy  for  his  retreat,  and  he 
would  start  for  Florence  the  day  his  Excellency  received 
this  despatch. 

"Well,  my  dear  minister,"  exclaimed  Varhe'ly,  "thank 
you  a  thousand  times.  And,  with  my  thanks,  my  fare- 
well. I  am  also  going  to  Florence." 

"Immediately?" 

"Immediately." 

"You  will  arrive  there  before  Menko." 

"I  am  in  a  hurry,"  replied  Varhely,  with  a  smile. 

He  went  to  the  telegraph  office,  after  leaving  the  min- 
istry, and  sent  a  despatch  to  Angelo  Valla,  at  Paris,  in 
which  he  asked  the  Venetian  to  join  him  in  Florence. 
Valla  had  assured  him  that  he  could  rely  on  him  for  any 
service;  and  Varhely  left  Vienna,  certain  that  he  should 
find  Manin's  old  minister  at  Florence. 

"After  all,  he  has  not  changed  so  much,"  he  said  to 
himself,  thinking  of  Josef  Ladany.  "Without  his  aid, 
Menko  would  certainly  have  escaped  me.  Ladany  has 
taken  the  times  as  they  are :  Zilah  and  I  desire  to  have 
them  as  they  should  be.  Which  is  right?" 

Then,  while  the  train  was  carrying  him  to  Venice,  he 
thought:  Bah!  it  was  much  better  to  be  a  dupe  like 
himself  and  Zilah,  and  to  die  preserving,  like  an  un- 
surrendered  flag,  one's  dream  intact, 

[268] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

To  die? 

Yes!  After  all,  Varhely  might,  at  this  moment,  be 
close  to  death;  but,  whatever  might  be  the  fate  which 
awaited  him  at  the  end  of  his  journey,  he  found  the 
road  very  long  and  the  engine  very  slow. 

At  Venice  he  took  a  train  which  carried  him  through 
Lombardy  into  Tuscany;  and  at  Florence  he  found 
Angelo  Valla. 

The  Italian  already  knew,  in  regard  to  Michel  Menko, 
all  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  know.  Before  going 
to  London,  Menko,  on  his  return  from  Pau,  after  the 
death  of  his  wife,  had  retired  to  a  small  house  he  owned 
in  Pistoja ;  and  here  he  had  undoubtedly  gone  now. 

It  was  a  house  built  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  and  sur- 
rounded with  olive-trees.  Varhely  and  Valla  waited  at 
the  hotel  until  one  of  Balla's  friends,  who  lived  at  Pis- 
toja, should  inform  him  of  the  arrival  of  the  Hungarian 
count.  And  Menko  did,  in  fact,  come  there  three  days 
after  Varhely  reached  Florence. 

"To-morrow,  my  dear  Valla,"  saidYanski,  "you 
will  accompany  me  to  see  Menko  ?  " 

"With  pleasure,"  responded  the  Italian. 

Menko's  house  was  some  distance  from  the  station,  at 
the  very  end  of  the  little  city. 

The  bell  at  the  gate  opening  into  the  garden,  had 
been  removed,  as  if  to  show  that  the  master  of  the  house 
did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed.  Varhely  was  obliged  to 
pound  heavily  upon  the  wooden  barrier.  The  servant 
who  appeared  in  answer  to  his  summons,  was  an  Hun- 
garian, and  he  wore  the  national  cap,  edged  with  fur. 

"My  master  does  not  receive  visitors,"  he  answered 
[269] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

when  Yanski  asked  him,  in  Italian,  if  Count  Menko 
were  at  home. 

"  Go  and  say  to  Menko  Mihaly,"  said  Varhely,  this 
time  in  Hungarian,  "that  Count  Varhely  is  here  as  the 
representative  of  Prince  Zilah!" 

The  domestic  disappeared,  but  returned  almost  im- 
mediately and  opened  the  gate.  Varhely  and  Valla 
crossed  the  garden,  entered  the  house,  and  found  them- 
selves face  to  face  with  Menko. 

Varhely  would  scarcely  have  recognized  him. 

The  former  graceful,  elegant  young  man  had  suddenly 
aged :  his  hair  was  thin  and  gray  upon  the  temples,  and, 
instead  of  the  carefully  trained  moustache  of  the  em- 
bassy attache,  a  full  beard  now  covered  his  emaciated 
cheeks. 

Michel  regarded  the  entrance  of  Varhely  into  the 
little  salon  where  he  awaited  him,  as  if  he  were  some 
spectre,  some  vengeance  which  he  had  expected,  and 
which  did  not  astonish  him.  He  stood  erect,  cold  and 
still,  as  Yanski  advanced  toward  him;  while  Angelo 
Valla  remained  in  the  doorway,  mechanically  stroking 
his  smoothly  shaven  chin. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Varhely,  " for  months  I  have  looked 
forward  impatiently  to  this  moment.  Do  not  doubt 
that  I  have  sought  you." 

"I  did  not  hide  myself,"  responded  Menko. 

"Indeed?  Then  may  I  ask  what  was  your  object  in 
going  to  Warsaw?" 

"To  seek — forgetfulness,"  said  the  young  man, 
slowly  and  sadly. 

This  simple  word— so  often  spoken  by  Zilah — which 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

had  no  more  effect  upon  the  stern  old  Hungarian  than  a 
tear  upon  a  coat  of  mail,  produced  a  singular  impression 
upon  Valla.  It  seemed  to  him  to  express  unconquer- 
able remorse. 

"What  you  have  done  can  not  be  forgotten,"  said 
Varhely. 

"No  more  than  what  I  have  suffered." 

"You  made  me  the  accomplice  of  the  most  cowardly 
and  infamous  act  a  man  could  commit.  I  have  come 
to  you  to  demand  an  explanation." 

Michel  lowered  his  eyes  at  these  cutting  words,  his 
thin  face  paling,  and  his  lower  lip  trembling;  but  he 
said  nothing.  At  last,  after  a  pause,  he  raised  his  eyes 
again  to  the  face  of  the  old  Hungarian,  and,  letting  the 
words  fall  one  by  one,  he  replied : 

"I  am  at  your  disposal  for  whatever  you  choose  to 
demand,  to  exact.  I  only  desire  to  assure  you  that  I 
had  no  intention  of  involving  you  in  an  act  which  I  re- 
garded as  a  cruel  necessity.  I  wished  to  avenge  myself. 
But  I  did  not  wish  my  vengeance  to  arrive  too  late,  when 
what  I  had  assumed  the  right  to  prevent  had  become 
irreparable." 

"I  do  not  understand  exactly,"  said  Varhely. 

Menko  glanced  at  Valla  as  if  to  ask  whether  he  could 
speak  openly  before  the  Italian. 

"Monsieur  Angelo  Valla  was  one  of  the  witnesses  of 
the  marriage  of  Prince  Andras  Zilah,"  said  Yanski. 

"I  know  Monsieur,"  said  Michel,  bowing  to  Valla. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed  abruptly,  his  whole  manner 
changing.  "There  was  a  man  whom  I  respected,  ad- 
mired and  loved,  Th^t  man,  without  knowing  it,  wrested 


JULES  CLARETIE 

from  me  the  woman  who  had  been  the  folly,  the 
dream,  and  the  sorrow  of  my  life.  I  would  have  done 
anything  to  prevent  that  woman  from  bearing  the  name 
of  that  man." 

"  You  sent  to  the  Prince  letters  written  to  you  by  that 
woman,  and  that,  too,  after  the  Tzigana  had  become 
Princess  Zilah." 

"She  had  let  loose  her  dogs  upon  me  to  tear  me  to 
pieces.  I  was  insane  with  rage.  I  wished  to  destroy  her 
hopes  also.  I  gave  those  letters  to  my  valet  with  abso- 
lute orders  to  deliver  them  to  the  Prince  the  evening  be- 
fore the  wedding.  At  the  same  hour  that  I  left  Paris, 
the  letters  should  have  been  in  the  hands  of  the  man 
who  had  the  right  to  see  them,  and  when  there  was  yet 
time  for  him  to  refuse  his  name  to  the  woman  who  had 
written  them.  My  servant  did  not  obey,  or  did  not  un- 
derstand. Upon  my  honor,  this  is  true.  He  kept  the 
letters  twenty-four  hours  longer  than  I  had  ordered  him 
to  do;  and  it  was  not  she  whom  I  punished,  but  I 
struck  the  man  for  whom  I  would  have  given  my  life." 

"Granted  that  there  was  a  fatality  of  this  sort  in  your 
conduct,"  responded  Varhely,  coldly,  "and  that  your 
lackey  did  not  understand  your  commands:  the  deed 
which  you  committed  was  none  the  less  that  of  a  cow- 
ard. You  used  as  a  weapon  the  letters  of  a  woman, 
and  of  a  woman  whom  you  had  deceived  by  promising 
her  your  name  when  it  was  no  longer  yours  to  give!" 

"Are  you  here  to  defend  Mademoiselle  Marsa 
Laszlo?"  asked  Michel,  a  trifle  haughtily. 

"I  am  here  to  defend  the  Princess  Zilah,  and  to 
avenge  Prince  Andras.  I  am  here,  above  all,  to  de- 

[272] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

mand  satisfaction  for  your  atrocious  action  in  having 
taken  me  as  the  instrument  of  your  villainy." 

"I  regret  it  deeply  and  sincerely,"  replied  Menko; 
"and  I  am  at  your  orders." 

The  tone  of  this  response  admitted  of  no  reply,  and 
Yanski  and  Valla  took  their  departure. 

Valla  then  obtained  another  second  from  the  Hun- 
garian embassy,  and  two  officers  in  garrison  at  Flor- 
ence consented  to  serve  as  Menko's  friends.  It  was  ar- 
ranged that  the  duel  should  take  place  in  a  field  near 
Pistoja. 

Valla,  anxious  and  uneasy,  said  to  Varhe*ly: 

"All  this  is  right  and  proper,  but " 

"But  what?" 

"But  suppose  he  kills  you?  The  right  is  the  right,  I 
know;  but  leaden  bullets  are  not  necessarily  on  the  side 
of  the  right,  and " 

"Well,"  interrupted  Yanski,  "in  case  of  the  worst, 
you  must  charge  yourself,  my  dear  Valla,  with  inform- 
ing the  Prince  how  his  old  friend  Yanski  Varhely  de- 
fended his  honor — and  also  tell  him  of  the  place  where 
Count  Menko  may  be  found.  I  am  going  to  attempt 
to  avenge  Zilah.  If  I  do  not  succeed,  Teremtete!"  rip- 
ping out  the  Hungarian  oath,  "he  will  avenge  me,  that 
is  all!  Let  us  go  to  supper." 


[273] 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

UIF  MENKO.  WERE  DEAD!" 

CRINGE  ZILAH,  wandering  solitary  in 
the  midst  of  crowded  Paris,  was  pos- 
sessed by  one  thought,  one  image  im- 
possible to  drive  away,  one  name  which 
murmured  eternally  in  his  ears — Marsa; 
Marsa,  who  wras  constantly  before  his 
eyes,  sometimes  in  the  silvery  shimmer 
of  her  bridal  robes,  and  sometimes 
with  the  deathly  pallor  of  the  promenader  in  the  garden 
of  Vaugirard ;  Marsa,  who  had  taken  possession  of  his 
being,  rilling  his  whole  heart,  and,  despite  his  revolt, 
gradually  overpowering  all  other  memories,  all  other 
passions !  Marsa,  his  last  love,  since  nothing  was  before 
him  save  the  years  when  the  hair  whitens,  and  when 
life  weighs  heavily  upon  weary  humanity;  and  not 
only  his  last  love,  but  his  only  love ! 

Oh!  why  had  he  loved  her?  Or,  having  loved  her, 
why  had  she  not  confessed  to  him  that  that  coward  of  a 
Menko  had  deceived  her!  Who  knows?  He  might 
have  pardoned  her,  perhaps,  and  accepted  the  young 
girl,  the  'widow  of  that  passion.  Widow?  No,  not 
while  Menko  lived.  Oh!  if  he  were  dead! 

And  Zilah  repeated,  with  a  fierce  longing  for  ven- 
geance: "If  he  were  dead.'"  That  is,  if  there  were  not 

[274] 


between  them,  Zilah  and  Marsa,  the  abhorred  memory 
of  the  lover! 

Well!  if  Menko  were  dead ? 

When  he  feverishly  asked  himself  this  question, 
Zilah  recalled  at  the  same  time  Marsa,  crouching 
at  his  feet,  and  giving  no  other  excuse  than  this:  "I 
loved  you!  I  wished  to  belong  to  you,  to  be  your 
wife!" 

His  wife!  Yes,  the  beautiful  Tzigana  he  had  met  at 
Baroness  Dinati's  was  now  his  wife!  He  could  punish 
or  pardon.  But  he  had  punished,  since  he  had  in- 
flicted upon  her  that  living  death — insanity.  And  he 
asked  himself  whether  he  should  not  pardon  Princess 
Zilah,  punished,  repentant,  almost  dying. 

He  knew  that  she  was  now  at  Maisons,  cured  of  her 
insanity,  but  still  ill  and  feeble,  and  that  she  lived  there 
like  a  nun,  doing  good,  dispensing  charity,  and  praying 
— praying  for  him,  perhaps. 

For  him  or  for  Menko  ? 

No,  for  him!  She  was  not  vile  enough  to  have  lied, 
when  she  asked,  implored,  besought  death  from  Zilah 
who  held  her  life  or  death  in  his  hands. 

"Yes,  I  had  the  right  to  kill  her,  but — I  have  the 
right  to  pardon  also,"  thought  Zilah. 

Ah,  if  Menko  were  dead ! 

The  Prince  gradually  wrought  himself  into  a  highly 
nervous  condition,  missing  Varhely,  uneasy  at  his  pro- 
longed absence,  and  never  succeeding  in  driving  away 
Marsa' s  haunting  image.  He  grew  to  hate  his  solitary 
home  and  his  books. 

"I  shall  not  want  any  breakfast,"  he  said  one  morn- 
[275] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

ing  to  his  valet;  and,  going  out,  he  descended  the 
Champs-Elysees  on  foot. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine,  he  en- 
tered a  restaurant,  and  sat  down  near  a  window,  gazing 
mechanically  at  this  lively  corner  of  Paris,  at  the  gray 
facade  of  the  church,  the  dusty  trees,  the  asphalt,  the 
promenaders,  the  yellow  omnibuses,  the  activity  of 
Parisian  life. 

All  at  once  he  was  startled  to  hear  his  name  pro- 
nounced and  to  see  before  him,  with  his  hand  out- 
stretched, as  if  he  were  asking  alms,  old  General  Vo- 
gotzine,  who  said  to  him,  timidly: 

"Ah,  my  dear  Prince,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you!  I 
was  breakfasting  over  there,  and  my  accursed  paper 
must  have  hidden  me.  Ouf !  If  you  only  knew!  I  am 
Stirling!" 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  Andras. 

"Matter?  Look  at  me!  I  must  be  as  red  as  a 
beet!" 

Poor  Vogotzine  had  entered  the  restaurant  for  break- 
fast, regretting  the  cool  garden  of  Maisons-Lafitte, 
which,  now  that  Marsa  no  longer  sat  there,  he  had  en- 
tirely to  himself.  After  eating  his  usual  copious  break- 
fast, he  had  imprudently  asked  the  waiter  for  a  Rus- 
sian paper;  and,  as  he  read,  and  sipped  his  kummel, 
which  he  found  a  little  insipid  and  almost  made  him 
regret  the  vodka  of  his  native  land,  his  eyes  fell  upon  a 
letter  from  Odessa,  in  which  there  was  a  detailed  de- 
scription of  the  execution  of  three  nihilists,  two  of  them 
gentlemen.  It  told  how  they  were  dragged,  tied  to  the 
tails  of  horses,  to  the  open  square,  each  of  them  bearing 

[276] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

upon  his  breast  a  white  placard  with  this  inscription,  in 
black  letters:  "Guilty  of  high  treason"  Then  the 
wretched  General  shivered  from  head  to  foot.  Every 
detail  of  the  melodramatic  execution  seemed  burned  into 
his  brain  as  with  a  red-hot  iron.  He  fancied  he  could 
see  the  procession  and  the  three  gibbets,  painted  black; 
beside  each  gibbet  was  an  open  ditch  and  a  black  coffin 
covered  with  a  dark  gray  pall.  He  saw,  in  the  hollow 
square  formed  by  a  battalion  of  Cossack  infantry,  the 
executioner,  Froloff,  in  his  red  shirt  and  his  plush  trou- 
sers tucked  into  his  boots,  and,  beside  him,  a  pale, 
black-robed  priest. 

"Who  the  devil  is  such  an  idiot  as  to  relate  such 
things  in  the  newspapers?"  he  growled. 

And  in  terror  he  imagined  he  could  hear  the  sheriff 
read  the  sentence,  see  the  priest  present  the  cross  to  the 
condemned  men,  and  Froloff,  before  putting  on  the 
black  caps,  degrade  the  gentlemen  by  breaking  their 
swords  over  their  heads. 

Then,  half  suffocated,  Vogotzine  flung  the  paper  on 
the  floor;  and,  with  eyes  distended  with  horror,  draw- 
ing the  caraffe  of  kiimmel  toward  him,  he  half  emptied 
it,  drinking  glass  after  glass  to  recover  his  self-control. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Froloff  was  there  behind  him,  and 
that  the  branches  of  the  candelabra,  stretching  over  his 
heated  head,  were  the  arms  of  gibbets  ready  to  seize 
him.  To  reassure  himself,  and  be  certain  that  he  was 
miles  and  miles  from  Russia,  he  was  obliged  to  make 
sure  of  the  presence  of  the  waiters  and  guests  in  the  gay 
and  gilded  restaurant. 

"The  devil  take  the  newspapers!"  he  muttered. 
[277] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"They  are  cursed  stupid!  I  will  never  read  another  1 
All  that  stuff  is  absurd !  Absurd !  A  fine  aid  to  diges- 
tion, truly!" 

And,  paying  his  bill,  he  rose  to  go,  passing  his  hand 
over  his  head  as  if  his  sword  had  been  broken  upon  it 
and  left  a  contusion,  and  glancing  timidly  into  the  mir- 
rors, as  if  he  feared  to  discover  the  image  of  Froloff 
there. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  he  discovered  Prince  Zilah, 
and  rushed  up  to  him  with  the  joyful  cry  of  a  child  dis- 
covering a  protector. 

The  Prince  noticed  that  poor  Vogotzine,  who  sat 
heavily  down  by  his  side,  was  not  entirely  sober.  The 
enormous  quantity  of  kiimmel  he  had  absorbed,  to- 
gether with  the  terror  produced  by  the  article  he  had 
read,  had  proved  too  much  for  the  good  man:  his  face 
was  fiery,  and  he  constantly  moistened  his  dry  lips. 

"I  suppose  it  astonishes  you  to  see  me  here?"  he 
said,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  all  that  had  taken  place. 
"I — I  am  astonished  to  see  myself  here!  But  I  am  so 
bored  down  there  at  Maisons,  and  I  rust,  rust,  as  little 
—  little — ah !  Stephanie  said  to  me  once  at  Odessa.  So 
I  came  to  breathe  the  air  of  Paris.  A  miserable  idea! 
Oh,  if  you  knew!  When  I  think  that  that  might  hap- 
pen to  me!" 

"What?"  asked  Andras,  mechanically. 

"What?"  gasped  the  General,  staring  at  him  with 
dilated  eyes.  "Why,  Froloff,  of  course!  Froloff!  The 
sword  broken  over  your  head!  The  gallows!  Ach!  I 
am  not  a  nihilist — heaven  forbid ! — but  I  have  displeased 
the  Czar.  And  to  displease  the  Czar — Brr!  Imagine 

[278] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

the  open  square — Odessa — No,  no,  don't  let  us  talk 
of  it  any  more!"  glancing  suddenly  about  him, as  if  he 
feared  the  platoon  of  Cossacks  were  there,  in  the  res- 
taurant, come  to  drag  him  away  in  the  name  of  the 
Emperor.  "Oh!  by  the  way,  Prince,"  he  exclaimed 
abruptly.  "why  don't  you  ever  come  to  Maisons- 
Lafitte?" 

He  must,  indeed,  have  been  drunk  to  address  such  a 
question  to  the  Prince. 

Zilah  looked  him  full  in  the  face;  but  Vogotzine's 
eyes  blinked  stupidly,  and  his  head  fell  partially  for- 
ward on  his  breast.  Satisfied  that  he  was  not  respon- 
sible for  what  he  was  saying,  Andras  rose  to  leave  the 
restaurant,  and  the  General  with  difficulty  stumbled  to 
his  feet,  and  instinctively  grasped  Andras' s  arm,  the 
latter  making  no  resistance,  the  mention  of  Maisons- 
Lafitte  interesting  him,  even  from  the  lips  of  this  in- 
toxicated old  idiot. 

"Do  you  know,"  stuttered  Vogotzine,  "I,  myself, 
should  be  glad — very  glad — if  you  would  come  there. 
I  am  bored — bored  to  death !  Closed  shutters — not  the 
least  noise.  The  creaking  of  a  door — the  slightest  bit  of 
light — makes  her  ill.  The  days  drag — they  drag — yes, 
they  do.  No  one  speaks.  Most  of  the  time  I  dine 
alone.  Shall  I  tell  you  ? — no — yes,  I  will.  Marsa,  yes, 
well!  Marsa,  she  is  good,  very  good — thinks  only  of 
the  poor — the  poor,  you  know!  But  whatever  Doctor 
Fargeas  may  say  about  it,  she  is  mad!  You  can't  de- 
ceive me!  She  is  insane! — still  insane!" 

"Insane?"  said  Andras,  striving  to  control  his  emo- 
tion. 

[279] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

The  General,  who  was  now  staggering  violently, 
clung  desperately  to  the  Prince,  They  had  reached  the 
boulevard,  and  Andras,  hailing  a  cab,  made  Vogotzine 
get  in,  and  instructed  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the 
Bois. 

"I  assure  you  that  she  is  insane,"  proceeded  the 
General,  throwing  his  head  back  on  the  cushions.  ' '  Yes, 
insane.  She  does  not  eat  anything;  she  never  rests. 
Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  how  she  lives.  Once — 
her  dogs — she  took  walks.  Now,  I  go  with  them  into 
the  park — good  beasts — very  gentle.  Sometimes,  all 
that  she  says,  is:  'Listen!  Isn't  that  Duna  or  Bundas 
barking?'  Ah!  if  I  wasn't  afraid  of  Froloff — yes,  Fro- 
loff — how  soon  I  should  return  to  Russia !  The  life  of 
Paris — the  life  of  Paris  wearies  me.  You  see,  I  come 
here  to-day,  I  take  up  a  newspaper,  and  I  see  what? 
Froloff!  Besides,  the  life  of  Paris — at  Maisons-Lafitte 
— between  four  walls,  it  is  absurd !  Now,  acknowledge, 
old  man,  isn't  it  absurd  ?  Do  you  know  what  I  should 
like  to  do  ?  I  should  like  to  send  a  petition  to  the  Czar. 
What  did  I  do,  after  all,  I  should  like  to  know?  It 
wasn't  anything  so  horrible.  I  stayed,  against  the  Em- 
peror's orders,  five  days  too  long  at  Odessa — that  was  all 
— yes,  you  see,  a  little  French  actress  who  was  there, 
who  sang  operettas;  oh,  how  she  did  sing  operettas. — 
Offenbach,  you  know;"  and  the  General  tried  to  hum  a 
bar  or  two  of  the  Dites  lui,  with  ludicrous  effect. 
"Charming!  To  leave  her,  ah !  I  found  that  very  hard. 
I  remained  five  days:  that  wasn't  much,  eh,  Zilah? 
five  days?  But  the  devil!  There  was  a  Grand  Duke 
—well — humph! — younger  than  I,  of  course — and — and 

[*»] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

— the  Grand  Duke  was  jealous.  Oh!  there  was  at  that 
time  a  conspiracy  at  Odessa !  I  was  accused  of  spend- 
ing my  time  at  the  theatre,  instead  of  watching  the 
conspirators.  They  even  said  I  was  in  the  conspiracy! 
Oh,  Lord!  Odessa!  The  gallows!  Froloff!  Well, 
it  was  Stephanie  Gavaud  who  was  the  cause  of  it. 
Don't  tell  that  to  Marsa!  Ah!  that  little  Stephanie! 
J'ai  vu  k  vieux  Bacchus  sur  sa  roche  fertile !  Tautin — 
no,  Tautin  couldn't  sing  like  that  little  Stephanie! 
Well,"  continued  Vogotzine,  hiccoughing  violently, 
"because  all  that  happened  then,  I  now  lead  here  the 
life  of  an  oyster!  Yes,  the  life  of  an  oyster,  of  a  turtle, 
of  a  clam!  alone  with  a  woman  sad  as  Mid-Lent,  who 
doesn't  speak,  doesn't  sing,  does  nothing  but  weep, 
weep,  weep!  It  is  crushing!  I  say  just  what  I  think! 
Crushing,  then,  whatever  my  niece  may  be — cr-r-rush- 
ing!  And — ah — really,  my  dear  fellow,  I  should  be 
glad  if  you  would  come.  Why  did  you  go  away  ?  Yes, 
yes,  that  is  your  affair,  and  I  don't  ask  any  questions. 
Only — only  you  would  do  well  to  come " 

"Why?"  interrupted  Andras,  turning  quickly  to 
Vogotzine. 

"Ah!  why?  Because!"  said  the  General,  trying  to 
give  to  his  heavy  face  an  expression  of  shrewd,  dignified 
gravity. 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  the  Prince.  "Is  she 
suffering  again  ?  Ill  ?  " 

"Oh,  insane,  I  tell  you!  absolutely  insane!  mad  as  a 
March  hare!  Two  days  ago,  you  see " 

"Well,  what?  two  days  ago?" 

"Because,  two  days  ago! " 

[281] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Well,  what?    What  is  it?    Speak,  Vogotzine!" 

"The  despatch,"  stammered  the  General. 

"What  despatch?" 

"The  des — despatch  from  Florence." 

"She  has  received  a  despatch  from  Florence?" 

"A  telegram — blue  paper — she  read  it  before  me;— 
upon  my  word,  I  thought  it  was  from  you!  She  said- 
no  ;  those  miserable  bits  of  paper,  it  is  astonishing  how 
they  alarm  you.  There  are  telegrams  which  have  given 
me  a  fit  of  indigestion,  I  assure  you — and  I  haven't  the 
heart  of  a  chicken!" 

"Go  on!  Marsa?  This  despatch?  Whom  was  it 
from?  What  did  Marsa  say ?" 

"She  turned  white  as  a  sheet;  she  began  to  tremble 
— an  attack  of  the  nerves — and  she  said:  'Well, 
in  two  days  I  shall  know,  at  last,  whether  I  am  to 
live!'  Queer,  wasn't  it?  I  don't  know  what  she 
meant!  But  it  is  certain — yes,  certain,  my  dear  fellow 
— that  she  expects,  this  evening,  some  one  who  is  com- 
ing— or  who  is  not  coming,  from  Florence — that  de- 
pends." 

"Who  is  it?  Who?"  cried  Andras.  "Michel 
Menko?" 

"I  don't  know,"  faltered  Vogotzine  in  alarm,  won- 
dering whether  it  were  Froloff's  hand  that  had  seized 
him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat. 

"It  is  Menko,  is  it  not?"  demanded  Andras;  while 
the  terrified  General  gasped  out  something  unintelli- 
gible, his  intoxication  increasing  every  yard  the  car- 
riage advanced  in  the  Bois. 

Andras  was  almost  beside  himself  with  pain  and  sus- 
[282] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

pense.  What  did  it  mean?  Who  had  sent  that  des- 
patch ?  Why  had  it  caused  Marsa  such  emotion  ?  "  In 
two  days  I  shall  knou>,  at  last,  whether  I  am  to  live!" 
Who  could  make  her  utter  such  a  cry?  Who,  if  not 
Michel  Menko,  was  so  intimately  connected  with  her  life 
as  to  trouble  her  so,  to  drive  her  insane,  as  Vogotzine 
said? 

"It  is  Menko,  is  it  not?  it  is  Menko?"  repeated  An- 
dras  again. 

And  Vogotzine  gasped : 

' '  Perhaps !  anything  is  possible ! ' ' 

But  he  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  he  comprehended,  de- 
spite his  inebriety,  that  he  was  in  danger  of  going  too 
far  and  doing  some  harm. 

"Come,  Vogotzine,  come,  you  have  told  me  too  much 
not  to  tell  me  all!" 

"That  is  true;  yes,  I  have  said  too  much!  Ah!  The 
devil!  this  is  not  my  affair! — Well,  yes,  Count  Menko 
is  in  Florence  or  near  Florence — I  don't  know  where. 
Marsa  told  me  that — without  meaning  to.  She  was 
excited — very  excited — talked  to  herself.  I  did  not  ask 
her  anything — but — she  is  insane,  you  see,  mad,  mad! 
She  first  wrote  a  despatch  to  Italy — then  she  tore  it  up 
like  this,  saying:  'No,  what  is  to  happen,  will  happen!' 
There!  I  don't  know  anything  but  that.  I  don't  know 
anything!" 

"Ah!  she  is  expecting  him!"  cried  Andras. 
"When?" 

"I  don't  know!" 

"You  told  me  it  was  to  be  this  evening.  This  eve- 
ning, is  it  not?" 

[283] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

The  old  General  felt  as  ill  at  ease  as  if  he  had  been 
before  a  military  commission  or  in  the  hands  of  Froloff. 

"Yes,  this  evening." 

"At  Maisons-Lafitte?" 

"At  Maisons,"  responded  Vogotzine,  mechanically. 
"And  all  this  wearies  me — wearies  me.  Was  it  for  this 
I  decided  to  come  to  Paris?  A  fine  idea!  At  least,  there 
are  no  Russian  days  at  Maisons!" 

Andras  made  no  reply. 

He  stopped  the  carriage,  got  out,  and,  saluting  the 
General  with  a  brief  "Thank  you!"  walked  rapidly 
away,  leaving  Vogotzine  in  blank  amazement,  mur- 
muring, as  he  made  an  effort  to  sit  up  straight : 

"Well,  well,  are  you  going  to  leave  me  here,  old  man? 
All  alone  ?  This  isn't  right ! ' ' 

And,  like  a  forsaken  child,  the  old  General,  with 
comic  twitchings  of  his  eyebrows  and  nostrils,  felt  a 
strong  desire  to  weep. 

"Where  shall  I  drive  you,  Monsieur?"  asked  the 
coachman. 

"Wherever  you  like,  my  friend,"  responded  Vogot- 
zine,  modestly,  with  an  appealing  look  at  the  man., 
"You,  at  least,  must  not  leave  me!" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  VALE  OF  VIOLETS 

N  the  Prince's  mind  the  whole  affair 
seemed  clear  as  day,  and  he  explained 
the  vague  anxiety  with  which  he  had 
been  afflicted  for  several  days  as  a  mys- 
terious premonition  of  a  new  sorrow. 
Menko  was  at  Florence!  Menko,  for 
it  could  be  no  other  than  he,  had  tele- 
graphed to  Marsa,  arranging  a  meeting 
with  her.  That  very  evening  he  was  to  be  in  the  house 
of  Marsa  Laszlo— Marsa  who  bore,  in  spite  of  all,  the 
title  and  name  of  the  Zilahs.  Was  it  possible  ?  After 
the  marriage,  after  this  woman's  vows  and  tears,  these 
two  beings,  separated  for  a  time,  were  to  be  united  again. 
And  he,  Andras,  had  almost  felt  pity  for  her !  He  had 
listened  to  Varhely,  an  honest  man,  drawing  a  parallel  be- 
tween a  vanquished  soldier  and  this  fallen  girl — Varhel, 
the  rough,  implacable  Varhely,  who  had  also  been  the 
dupe  of  the  Tzigana,  and  one  evening  at  Sainte-Adresse 
had  even  counselled  the  deceived  husband  to  pardon 
her. 

In  a  state  bordering  on  frenzy,  Zilah  returned  to  his 
hotel,  thinking: 

"He  will  be  with  her  this  evening!" 
This  was  worse  than  all  the  rest.    How  could  he 
punish  her? 

[285] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

Punish  her? 

Why  not?  Was  not  Marsa  Laszlo  his  wife?  That 
villa  of  Maisons-Lafitte,  where  she  thought  herself  so 
safe,  was  his  by  law.  He,  the  husband,  had  a  right  to 
enter  there  at  any  hour  and  demand  of  his  wife  an  ac- 
count of  his  honor. 

"She  wished  this  name  of  Zilah!  Well!  she  shall 
know  at  least  what  it  costs  and  what  it  imposes  upon 
her ! "  he  hissed  through  his  clenched  teeth.  He  walked 
nervously  to  and  fro  in  the  library  of  his  hotel,  his  ex- 
citement increasing  at  every  step. 

"She  is  Princess  Zilah!  She — a  princess!  Nothing 
can  wrest  from  her  that  title  which  she  has  stolen! 
Princess  be  it,  then ;  but  the  Prince  has  the  right  to  deal 
out  life  or  death  to  his  wife — to  his  wife  and  to  the 
lover  of  his  wife!"  with  a  spasmodic  burst  of  laughter. 
"Her  lover  is  to  be  there;  Menko  is  to  be  there,  and  I 
complain !  The  man  whom  I  have  sought  in  vain  will 
be  before  me.  I  shall  hold  him  at  my  mercy,  and  I  do 
not  thank  the  kind  fate  which  gives  me  that  joy! — 
This  evening!  He  will  be  at  her  house  this  evening! 
Good!  Justice  shall  be  done!" 

Every  moment  added  to  his  fever.  He  would  have 
given  ten  years  of  his  life  if  it  were  already  evening. 
He  waited  impatiently  for  the  hour  to  come  when  he 
could  go  and  surprise  them.  He  even  thought  of  meet- 
ing Menko  at  the  railway  station  on  his  arrival  from 
Italy:  but  what  would  be  the  use ?  Menko  would  be  at 
Maisons;  and  he  would  kill  him  before  her  face,  in  a 
duel  if  Menko  would  fight,  or  like  a  thief  caught  in  the 
act  if  he  attempted  to  fly.  That  would  be  better.  Yep, 

[286] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

he  would  kill  him  like  a  dog,  if  the  other — but  no !  The 
Hungarian,  struck  in  the  presence  of  the  Tzigana,  would 
certainly  not  recoil  before  a  pistol.  Marsa  should  be 
the  sole  witness  of  the  duel,  and  the  blood  of  the  Prince 
or  of  Menko  should  spatter  her  face — a  crimson  stain 
upon  her  pale  cheek  should  be  her  punishment. 

Early  in  the  evening  Andras  left  the  hotel,  after  slip- 
ping into  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat  a  pair  of  loaded 
pistols:  one  of  them  he  would  cast  at  Menko's  feet.  It 
was  not  assassination  he  wished,  but  justice. 

He  took  the  train  to  Maisons,  and,  on  his  arrival 
there,  crossed  the  railway  bridge,  and  found  himself 
almost  alone  in  the  broad  avenue  which  runs  through 
the  park.  As  he  walked  on  through  the  rapidly  dark- 
ening shadows,  he  began  to  feel  a  strange  sensation,  as 
if  nothing  had  happened,  and  as  if  he  were  shaking  off, 
little  by  little,  a  hideous  nightmare.  In  a  sort  of  vol- 
untary hallucination,  he  imagined  that  he  was  going,  as 
in  former  days,  to  Marsa' s  house;  and  that  she  was 
awaiting  him  in  one  of  those  white  frocks  which  be- 
came her  so  well,  with  her  silver  belt  clasped  with  the 
agraffe  of  opals.  As  he  advanced,  a  host  of  memories 
overwhelmed  him.  He  had  walked  with  Marsa  under 
these  great  lindens  forming  an  arch  overhead  like  that 
of  a  cathedral.  He  remembered  conversations  they 
had  had  in  the  evening,  when  a  slight  mist  silvered  the 
majestic  park,  and  the  white  villa  loomed  vaguely  be- 
fore them  like  some  phantom  palace  of  fairyland.  With 
the  Tzigana  clinging  to  his  arm,  he  had  Seen  those  foun- 
tains, with  their  singing  waters,  that  broad  lawn  be- 
tween the  two  long  lines  of  trees,  those  winding  paths 

[287] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

through  the  shrubbery;  and,  in  the  emotion  aroused  by 
these  well-remembered  places,  there  was  a  sensation 
of  bitter  pain  at  the  thought  of  the  happiness  that  might 
have  been  his  had  fate  fulfilled  her  promises,  which  in- 
creased, rather  than  appeased,  the  Prince's  anger. 

As  his  steps  led  him  mechanically  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  house  where  she  lived,  all  the  details  of  his  wed- 
ding-day rose  in  his  memory,  and  he  turned  aside  to  see 
again  the  little  church,  the  threshold  of  which  they  had 
crossed  together— she  exquisitely  lovely  in  her  white 
draperies,  and  he  overflowing  with  happiness. 

The  square  in  front  of  the  sanctuary  was  now  deserted 
and  the  leaves  were  beginning  to  fall  from  the  trees.  A 
man  was  lying  asleep  upon  the  steps  before  the  bolted 
door.  Zilah  stood  gazing  at  the  Gothic  portal,  with  a 
statue  of  the  Virgin  Mother  above  it,  and  wondered 
whether  it  were  he  who  had  once  led  there  a  lovely  girl, 
about  to  become  his  wife;  and  the  sad,  closed  church 
produced  upon  him  the  effect  of  a  tomb. 

He  dragged  himself  away  from  the  contemplation  of 
the  stone  threshold,  where  slept  the  tired  man — drunk 
perhaps,  at  all  events  happier  than  the  Prince — and 
proceeded  on  his  way  through  the  woods  to  the  abode 
of  Marsa  Laszlo. 

There  was,  Zilah  remembered  well,  quite  near  there,  a 
sort  of  narrow  valley  (where  the  Mayor  of  Maisons  was 
said  to  have  royally  entertained  Louis  XIV  and  his 
courtiers,  as  they  were  returning  from  Marly),  a  lovely 
spot,  surrounded  by  grassy  slopes  covered  with  violets, 
a  little  shady,  Virgilian  wood,  where  he  and  Marsa  had 
dreamed  away  many  happy  hours.  They  had  chris- 

[288] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

tened  it  The  Vale  of  Violets.  How  many  memories  were 
in  that  sweet  name,  each  one  of  which  stabbed  and  ex- 
asperated Zilah,  rising  before  him  like  so  many  spectres. 

He  hastened  his  steps,  repeating: 

"He  is  there!  She  is  waiting  for  him !  Her  lover  is 
there!" 

At  the  end  of  the  road,  before  the  villa,  closed  and 
silent  like  the  old  church,  he  stopped.  He  had  reached 
his  destination;  but  what  was  he  about  to  do,  he  who 
who  up  to  this  time  had  protected  his  name  from  the 
poisonous  breath  of  scandal? 

He  was  about  to  kill  Menko,  or  to  be  killed  himself. 
A  duel!  But  what  was  the  need  of  proposing  a  duel, 
when,  exercising  his  rights  as  a  husband,  he  could  pun- 
ish both  the  man  and  the  woman? 

He  did  not  hesitate  long,  however,  but  advanced  to 
the  gate,  saying,  aloud: 

"I  have  a  right  to  enter  my  own  house." 

The  ringing  of  the  bell  was  answered  by  the  barking 
of  Duna,  Bundas,  and  Ortog,  who  tore  furiously  at  their 
iron  chains. 

A  man  presently  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the 
gate.  It  was  a  domestic  whom  Andras  did  not  know 
and  had  never  seen. 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  see?"  asked  the  man. 

"The  Princess  Zilah!" 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  the  man,  his  hand  upon 
the  inner  bolt  of  the  gate. 

"Prince  Zilah!" 

The  other  stood  stock-still  in  amazement,  trying  to 
see,  through  the  darkness,  the  Prince's  face. 
19  [289] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  demanded  Andras. 

And,  as  the  domestic  opened  the  gate,  as  if  to  observe 
the  appearance  of  the  visitor,  the  Prince  gave  it  a  ner- 
vous push,  which  threw  the  servant  backward;  and, 
once  within  the  garden,  he  came  close  to  him,  and  said : 

"Look  well  at  me,  in  order  that  you  may  recognize 
me  again.  I  am  master  here." 

Zilah's  clear  eye  and  imperious  manner  awed  the 
man,  and  he  bowed  humbly,  not  daring  to  speak. 

Andras  turned  on  his  heel,  mounted  the  steps,  and 
entered  the  house;  then  he  stopped  and  listened. 

She  was  with  him.  Yes,  a  man  was  there,  and  the 
man  was  speaking,  speaking  to  Marsa,  speaking  doubt- 
less of  love. 

Menko,  with  his  twisted  moustache,  his  pretty  smile 
and  his  delicate  profile,  was  there,  behind  that  door. 
A  red  streak  of  light  from  the  salon  where  Marsa  was 
showed  beneath  the  door,  which  the  Prince  longed  to 
burst  open  with  his  foot.  With  anger  and  bitterness 
filling  his  heart,  he  felt  capable  of  entering  there,  and 
striking  savagely,  madly,  at  his  rival. 

How  these  two  beings  had  played  with  him;  the 
woman  who  had  lied  to  him,  and  the  coward  who  had 
sent  him  those  letters. 

Suddenly  Marsa' s  voice  fell  upon  his  ear,  that  rich, 
contralto  voice  he  knew  so  well,  speaking  in  accents  of 
love  or  joy. 

What  was  he  waiting  for?  His  hot,  feverish  hand 
sought  the  handle  of  his  pistol,  and,  striding  forward, 
he  threw  open  the  door  of  the  room. 

The  light  from  an  opal-tinted  lamp  fell  full  upon  his 
[290] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

face.  He  stood  erect  upon  the  threshold,  while  two 
other  faces  were  turned  toward  him,  two  pale  faces, 
Marsa's  and  another's. 

Andras  paused  in  amazement. 

He  had  sought  Menko;  he  found — Varhely! 


[291} 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  DUEL 
>ANSKI!" 

Marsa  recoiled  in  fear  at  hearing  this 
cry  and  the  sudden  appearance  of  the 
Prince;  and,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  with 
her  face  still  turned  toward  that  thres- 
hold where  Andras  stood,  she  mur- 
mured, in  a  voice  choked  with  emotion : 

"Who  is  there?    Who  is  it?" 
Yanski  Varhely,  unable  to  believe  his  eyes,  advanced, 
as  if  to  make  sure. 

"Zilah!"  he  exclaimed,  in  his  turn. 
He  could  not  understand ;  and  Zilah  himself  wondered 
whether  he  were  not  the  victim  of  some  illusion,  and 
where  Menko  could  be,  that  Menko  whom  Marsa  had 
expected,  and  whom  he,  the  husband,  had  come  to 
chastise. 

But  the  most  bewildered,  in  her  mute  amazement,  was 
Marsa,  her  lips  trembling,  her  face  ashen,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  Prince,  as  she  leaned  against  the  marble  of  the 
mantelpiece  to  prevent  herself  from  falling,  but  longing 
to  throw  herself  on  her  knees  before  this  man  who  had 
suddenly  appeared,  and  who  was  master  of  her  destiny. 
"You  here?"  said  Varhely  at  last.  "You  followed 
me,  then?" 

[292] 


"No,"  said  Andras.  "The  one  whom  I  expected  to 
find  here  was  not  you." 

"Who  was  it,  then?" 

"Michel  Menko!" 

Yanski  Varhely  turned  toward  Marsa. 

She  did  not  stir;  she  was  looking  at  the  Prince. 

"  Michel  Menko  is  dead,"  responded  Varhely,  shortly. 
"It  was  to  announce  that  to  the  Princess  Zilah  that  I 
am  here." 

Andras  gazed  alternately  upon  the  old  Hungarian, 
and  upon  Marsa,  who"  stood  there  petrified,  her  whole 
soul  burning  in  her  eyes. 

"Dead?"  repeated  Zilah,  coldly. 

"I  fought  and  killed  him,"  returned  Varh61y. 

Andras  struggled  against  the  emotion  which  seized 
hold  of  him.  Pale  as  death,  he  turned  from  Varhely  to 
the  Tzigana,  with  an  instinctive  desire  to  know  what  her 
feelings  might  be. 

The  news  of  this  death,  repeated  thus  before  the  man 
whom  she  regarded  as  the  master  of  her  existence,  had, 
apparently,  made  no  impression  upon  her,  her  thoughts 
being  no  longer  there,  but  her  whole  heart  being  con- 
centrated upon  the  being  who  had  despised  her,  hated 
her,  fled  from  her,  and  who  appeared  there  before  her  as 
in  one  of  her  painful  dreams  in  which  he  returned  again 
to  that  very  house  where  he  had  cursed  her. 

"There  was,"  continued  Varhely,  slowly,  "a  martyr 
who  could  not  raise  her  head,  who  could  not  live,  so  long 
as  that  man  breathed.  First  of  all,  I  came  to  her  to  tell 
her  that  she  was  delivered  from  a  detested  past.  To- 
morrow I  should  have  informed  a  man  whose  honor  is 

[293] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

my  own,  that  the  one  who  injured  and  insulted  him  has 
paid  his  debt." 

With  lips  white  as  his  moustache,  Varhely  spoke  these 
words  like  a  judge  delivering  a  solemn  sentence. 

A  strange  expression  passed  over  Zilah's  face.  He 
felt  as  if  some  horrible  weight  had  been  lifted  from  his 
heart. 

Menko  dead! 

Yet  there  was  a  time  when  he  had  loved  this  Michel 
Menko:  and,  of  the  three  beings  present  in  the  little 
salon,  the  man  who  had  been  injured  by  him  was  per- 
haps the  one  who  gave  a  pitying  thought  to  the  dead,  the 
old  soldier  remaining  as  impassive  as  an  executioner, 
and  the  Tzigana  remembering  only  the  hatred  she  had 
felt  for  the  one  who  had  been  her  ruin. 

Menko  dead! 

Varhely  took  from  the  mantelpiece  the  despatch  he 
had  sent  from  Florence,  three  days  before,  to  the  Prin- 
cess Zilah,  the  one  of  which  Vogotzine  had  spoken  to 
Andras. 

He  handed  it  to  the  Prince,  and  Andras  read  as  fol- 
lows: 

"I  am  about  to  risk  my  life  for  you.  Tuesday  even- 
ing either  I  shall  be  at  Maisons-Lafitte,  or  I  shall  be 
dead.  I  fight  to-morrow  with  Count  M.  If  you  do  not 
see  me  again,  pray  for  the  soul  of  Varhely." 

Count  Varhely  had  sent  this  despatch  before  going  to 
keep  his  appointment  with  Michel  Menko. 


It  had  been  arranged  that  they  were  to  fight  in  a  field 
near  Pistoja. 

[294] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

Some  peasant  women,  who  were  braiding  straw  hats, 
laughed  as  they  saw  the  men  pass  by. 

One  of  them  called  out,  gayly: 

"Do  you  wish  to  find  your  sweethearts,  signori? 
That  isn't  the  way!" 

A  little  farther,  Varhely  and  his  adversary  encoun- 
tered a  monk  with  a  cowl  drawn  over  his  head  so  that 
only  his  eyes  could  be  seen,  who,  holding  out  a  zinc 
money-box,  demanded  elemosina,  alms  for  the  sick  in 
hospitals. 

Menko  opened  his  pocketbook,  and  dropped  in  the 
box  a  dozen  pieces  of  gold. 

"Mille  grazie,  signor!" 

"It  is  of  no  consequence." 

They  arrived  on  the  ground,  and  the  seconds  loaded 
the  pistols. 

Michel  asked  permission  of  Yanski  to  say  two  words 
to  him. 

"Speak!"  said  Varhely. 

The  old  Hungarian  stood  at  his  post  with  folded  arms 
and  lowered  eyes,  while  Michel  approached  him,  and 
said: 

"Count  Varhely,  I  repeat  to  you  that  I  wished  to  pre- 
vent this  marriage,  but  not  to  insult  the  Prince.  I  give 
you  my  word  of  honor  that  this  is  true.  If  you  survive 
me,  will  you  promise  to  repeat  this  to  him?" 

"I  promise." 

"I  thank  you." 

They  took  their  positions. 

Angelo  Valla  was  to  give  the  signal  to  fire. 

He  stood  holding  a  white  handkerchief  in  his  out- 
[295] 


stretched  hand,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  two 
adversaries,  who  were  placed  opposite  each  other,  with 
their  coats  buttoned  up  to  the  chin,  and  their  pistols 
held  rigidly  by  their  side. 

Varhely  was  as  motionless  as  if  made  of  granite. 
Menko  smiled. 

"  One !    Two ! ' '  counted  Valla. 

He  paused  as  if  to  take  breath:  then— 

" Three!"  he  exclaimed,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  pro- 
nouncing a  death-sentence;  and  the  handkerchief  fell. 

There  were  two  reports  in  quick  succession. 

Varhely  stood  erect  in  his  position;  Menko's  ball  had 
cut  a  branch  above  his  head,  and  the  green  leaves  fell 
fluttering  to  the  ground. 

Michel  staggered  back,  his  hand  pressed  to  his  left  side. 

His  seconds  hastened  toward  him,  seized  him  under 
the  arms,  and  tried  to  raise  him. 

"It  is  useless,"  he  said.     "It  was  well  aimed!" 

And,  turning  to  Varhely,  he  cried,  in  a  voice  which  he 
strove  to  render  firm: 

"Remember  your  promise!" 

They  opened  his  coat.  The  ball  had  entered  his 
breast  just  above  the  heart. 

They  seated  him  upon  the  grass,  with  his  back  against 
a  tree. 

He  remained  there,  with  fixed  eyes,  gazing,  perhaps, 
into  the  infinite,  which  was  now  close  at  hand. 

His  lips  murmured  inarticulate  names,  confused 
words :  ' '  Pardon — punishment — Marsa — 

As  Yanski  Varhely,  with  his  two  seconds,  again  passed 
the  straw- workers,  the  girls  saluted  them  with: 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"Well,  where  are  your  other  friends?  Have  they 
found  their  sweethearts?" 

And  while  their  laughter  rang  out  upon  the  air,  the 
gay,  foolish  laughter  of  youth  and  health,  over  yonder 
they  were  bearing  away  the  dead  body  of  Michel 
Menko. 


Andras  Zilah,  with  a  supreme  effort  at  self-control, 
listened  to  his  old  friend  relate  this  tale;  and,  while 
Varhely  spoke,  he  was  thinking: 

It  was  not  a  lover,  it  Was  not  Menko,  whom  Marsa  ex- 
pected. Between  the  Tzigana  and  himself  there  was 
now  nothing,  nothing  but  a  phantom.  The  other  had 
paid  his  debt  with  his  life.  The  Prince's  anger  disap- 
peared as  suddenly  in  proportion  as  his  exasperation 
had  been  violent. 

He  contemplated  Marsa,  thin  and  pale,  but  beautiful 
still.  The  very  fixedness  of  her  great  eyes  gave  her  a 
strange  and  powerful  attraction;  and,  in  the  manner 
in  which  Andras  regarded  her,  Count  Varhely,  with  his 
rough  insight,  saw  that  there  were  pity,  astonishment, 
and  almost  fear. 

He  pulled  his  moustache  a  moment  in  reflection,  and 
then  made  a  step  toward  the  door. 

Marsa  saw  that  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room;  and, 
moving  away  from  the  marble  against  which  she  had 
been  leaning,  with  a  smile  radiant  with  the  joy  of  a  re- 
covered pride,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Yanski,  and,  in 
a  voice  in  which  there  was  an  accent  of  almost  terrible 
gratitude  for  the  act  of  justice  which  had  been  accom- 
plished, she  said, firmly: 

[297] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

"I  thank  you,  Varh61y!" 

Varhely  made  no  reply,  but  passed  out  of  the  room, 
closing  the  door  behind  him. 

The  husband  and  wife,  after  months  of  torture, 
anguish,  and  despair,  were  alone,  face  to  face  with  each 
other. 

Andras's  first  movement  was  one  of  flight.  He  was 
afraid  of  himself.  Of  his  own  anger  ?  Perhaps.  Per- 
haps of  his  own  pity. 

He  did  not  look  at  Marsa,  and  in  two  steps  he  was  at 
the  door. 

Then,  with  a  start,  as  one  drowning  catches  at  a 
straw,  as  one  condemned  to  death  makes  a  last  appeal 
for  mercy,  with  a  feeble,  despairing  cry  like  that  of  a 
child,  a  strange  contrast  to  the  almost  savage  thanks 
given  to  Varhely,  she  exclaimed : 

"Ah!    I  implore  you,  listen  to  me!" 

Andras  stopped. 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  me?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing — nothing  but  this:  Forgive!  ah,  forgive! 
I  have  seen  you  once  more;  forgive  me,  and  let  me  dis- 
appear; but,  at  least,  carrying  away  with  me  a  word 
from  you  which  is  not  a  condemnation." 

"I  might  forgive,"  said  Andras;  "but  I  could  not 
forget." 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  forget,  I  do  not  ask  you  that! 
Does  one  ever  forget?  And  yet — yes,  one  does  forget, 
one  does  forget,  I  know  it.  You  are  the  only  thing  in 
all  my  existence,  I  know  only  you,  I  think  only  of  you. 
I  have  loved  only  you!" 

shivered,  no  longer  able  tp  fly,  movecj  tQ  the 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

depths  of  his  being  by  the  tones  of  this  adored  voice,  so 
long  unheard. 

"There  was  no  need  of  bloodshed  to  destroy  that 
odious  past,"  continued  Marsa.  "Ah!  I  have  atoned 
for  it !  There  is  no  one  on  earth  who  has  suffered  as  I 
have.  I,  who  came  across  your  path  only  to  ruin  your 
life!  Your  life,  my  God,  yours!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  worshipping  eyes,  as  believers 
regard  their  god. 

"You  have  not  suffered  so  much  as  the  one  you 
stabbed,  Marsa.  He  had  never  had  but  one  love  in  the 
world,  and  that  love  was  you.  If  you  had  told  him  of 
your  sufferings,  and  confessed  your  secret,  he  would 
have  been  capable  of  pardoning  you.  You  deceived 
him.  There  was  something  worse  than  the  crime  it- 
self—the lie." 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "if  you  knew  how  I  hated  that  lie! 
Would  to  heaven  that  some  one  would  tear  out  my 
tongue  for  having  deceived  you!" 

There  was  an  accent  of  truth  in  this  wild  outburst  of 
the  Tzigana;  and  upon  the  lips  of  this  daughter  of  the 
puszta,  Hungarian  and  Russian  at  once,  the  cry  seemed 
the  very  symbol  of  her  exceptional  nature. 

"What  is  it  you  wish  that  I  should  do?"  she  said. 
"Die?  yes,  I  would  willingly,  gladly  die  for  you,  inter- 
posing my  breast  between  you  and  a  bullet.  Ah!  I 
swear  to  you,  I  should  be  thankful  to  die  like  one  of 
those  who  bore  your  name.  But,  there  is  no  fighting 
now,  and  I  can  not  shed  my  blood  for  you.  I  will  sac- 
rifice my  life  in  another  manner,  obscurely,  in  the 
shadows  of  a  cloister,  I  shall  have  had  neither  lover 

[299] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

nor  husband,  I  shall  be  nothing,  a  recluse,  a  prisoner. 
It  will  be  well!  yes,  for  me,  the  prison,  the  cell,  death 
in  a  life  slowly  dragged  out!  Ah!  I  deserve  that  pun- 
ishment, and  I  wish  my  sentence  to  come  from  you;  I 
wish  you  to  tell  me  that  I  am  free  to  disappear,  and 
that  you  order  me  to  do  so — but,  at  the  same  time,  tell 
me,  oh,  tell  me,  that  you  have  forgiven  me!" 

"I!"  said  Andras. 

In  Marsa's  eyes  was  a  sort  of  wild  excitement,  a 
longing  for  sacrifice,  a  thirst  for  martyrdom. 

"Do  I  understand  that  you  wish  to  enter  a  con- 
vent?" asked  Andras,  slowly. 

"Yes,  the  strictest  and  gloomiest.  And  into  that 
tomb  I  shall  carry,  with  your  condemnation  and  fare- 
well, the  bitter  regret  of  my  love,  the  weight  of  my  re- 
morse!" 

The  convent!  The  thought  of  such  a  fate  for  the 
woman  he  loved  filled  Andras  Zilah  with  horror.  He 
imagined  the  terrible  scene  of  Marsa's  separation  from 
the  world;  he  could  hear  the  voice  of  the  officiating 
bishop  casting  the  cruel  words  upon  the  living,  like 
earth  upon  the  dead;  he  could  almost  see  the  gleam 
of  the  scissors  as  they  cut  through  her  beautiful  dark 
hair. 

Kneeling  before  him,  her  eyes  wet  with  tears,  Marsa 
was  as  lovely  in  her  sorrow  as  a  Mater  Dolorosa.  All 
his  love  surged  up  in  his  heart,  and  a  wild  temptation 
assailed  him  to  keep  her  beauty,  and  dispute  with  the 
convent  this  penitent  absolved  by  remorse.  , 

She  knelt  there  repentant,  weeping,  wringing  her 
hands,  asking  nothing  but  pardon — a  word,  a  single 

[3°°] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

word  of  pity — and  the  permission  to  bury  herself  for- 
ever from  the  world. 

"So,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "the  convent  cell,  the  prison, 
does  not  terrify  you?" 

"Nothing  terrifies  me  except  your  contempt." 

"You  would  live  far  from  Paris,  far  from  the  world, 
far  from  everything?" 

"In  a  kennel  of  dogs,  under  the  lash  of  a  slave- 
driver;  breaking  stones,  begging  my  bread,  if  you  said 
to  me :  '  Do  that,  it  is  atonement ! ' ' 

"Well ! "  cried  Andras,  passionately,  his  lips  trembling, 
his  blood  surging  through  his  veins.  "Live  buried  in 
our  Hungary,  forgetting,  forgotten,  hidden,  unknown, 
away  from  all,  away  from  Paris,  away  from  the  noise 
of  the  world,  in  a  life  with  me,  which  will  be  a  new  life! 
Will  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  staring,  terrified  eyes,  belief 
ing  his  words  to  be  some  cruel  jest. 

"Will  you?"  he  said  again,  raising  her  from  the 
floor,  and  straining  her  to  his  breast,  his  burning  lips 
seeking  the  icy  ones  of  the  Tzigana.  "Answer  me, 
Marsa.  Will  you?" 

Like  a  sigh,  the  word  fell  on  the  air:  "Yes." 


[301] 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A   NEW   LIFE 


following  day,  with  tender  ardor, 
he  took  her  away  to  his  old  Hungarian 
castle,  with  its  red  towers  still  bearing 
marks  of  the  ravages  of  the  cannon  — 
the  castle  which  he  never  had  beheld 
since  Austria  had  confiscated  it,  and 
then,  after  long  years,  restored  it  to. 
its  rightful  owner.  He  fled  from  Paris, 
seeking  a  pure  existence,  and  returned  to  his  Hungary, 
to  the  country  of  his  youth,  the  land  of  the  vast  plains. 
He  saw  again  the  Danube  and  the  golden  Tisza.  In 
the  Magyar  costume,  his  heart  beating  more  proudly 
under  the  national  attila,  he  passed  before  the  eyes 
of  the  peasants  who  had  known  him  when  a  child, 
and  had  fought  under  his  orders  ;  and  he  spoke  to  them 
by  name,  recognizing  many  of  his  old  companions  in 
these  poor  people  with  cheeks  tanned  by  the  sun,  and 
heads  whitened  by  age. 

He  led  Marsa,  trembling  and  happy,  to  the  door  of 
the  castle,  where  they  offered  him  the  wine  of  honor, 
drank  from  the  tschouttora,  the  Hungarian  drinking- 
vessel,  the  notis  and  cakes  made  of  maize  cooked  in 
cream. 
Upon  the  lawns  about  the  castle,  the  techiko  shep- 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

herds,  who  had  come  on  horseback  to  greet  the  Prince, 
drank  plum  brandy,  and  drank  with  their  red  wine 
the  kakostas  and  the  bacon  of  Temesvar.  They  had 
come  from  their  farms,  from  their  distant  pusztas, 
peasant  horsemen,  like  soldiers,  with  their  national 
caps;  and  they  joyously  celebrated  the  return  of  Zilah 
Andras,  the  son  of  those  Zilahs  whose  glorious  history 
they  all  knew.  The  dances  began,  the  bright  copper 
heels  clinked  together,  the  blue  jackets,  embroidered 
with  yellow,  red,  or  gold,  swung  in  the  wind,  and  it 
seemed  that  the  land  of  Hungary  blossomed  with  flow- 
ers and  rang  with  songs  to  do  honor  to  the  coming  of 
Prince  Andras  and  his  Princess. 

Then  Andras  entered  with  Marsa  the  abode  of  his 
ancestors.  And,  in  the  great  halls  hung  with  tapestry 
and  filled  with  pictures  which  the  conquerors  had  re- 
spected, before  those  portraits  of  magnates  superb  in 
their  robes  of  red  or  green  velvet  edged  with  fur,  curved 
sabres  by  their  sides  and  aigrettes  upon  their  heads,  all 
reproducing  a  common  trait  of  rough  frankness,  with 
their  long  moustaches,  their  armor  and  their  hussar  uni- 
forms— Marsa  Laszlo,  who  knew  them  well,  these 
heroes  of  her  country,  these  Zilah  princes  who  had  fallen 
upon  the  field  of  battle,  said  to  the  last  of  them  all,  to 
Andras  Zilah,  before  Ferency  Zilah,  before  Sandor,  be- 
fore the  Princesses  Zilah  who  had  long  slept  in  "dull, 
cold  marble,"  and  who  had  been  no  prouder  than  she 
of  the  great  name  they  bore: 

"Do  you  know  the  reason  why,  equal  to  these  in 
devotion  and  courage,  you  are  superior  to  them  all! 
It  is  because  you  are  good,  as  good  as  they  were  brave, 

[303] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

To  their  virtues,  you,  who  forgive,  add  this  virtue,  which 
is  your  own:  pity!" 

She  looked  at  him  humbly,  raising  to  his  face  her 
beautiful  dark  eyes,  as  if  to  let  him  read  her  heart,  in 
which  was  only  his  image  and  his  name.  She  pressed 
closely  to  his  side,  with  an  uneasy,  timid  tenderness,  as 
if  she  were  a  stranger  in  the  presence  of  his  great  an- 
cestors, who  seemed  to  demand  whether  the  newcomer 
were  one  of  the  family;  and  he,  putting  his  arm  about 
her,  and  pressing  to  his  beating  heart  the  Tzigana, 
whose  eyes  were  dim  with  tears,  said:  "No,  I  am  not 
better  than  these.  It  is  not  pity  which  is  my  virtue, 
Marsa:  it  is  my  love.  For — I  love  you!" 

Yes,  he  loved  her,  and  with  all  the  strength  of  a  first 
and  only  love.  He  loved  her  so  that  he  forgot  every- 
thing, so  that  he  did  not  see  that  in  Marsa's  smile  there 
was  a  look  of  the  other  side  of  the  great,  eternal  river. 
He  loved  her  so  that  he  thought  only  of  this  woman, 
of  her  beauty,  of  the  delight  of  her  caresses,  of  his 
dream  of  love  realized  in  the  air  of  the  adored  father- 
land. He  loved  her  so  that  he  left  without  answers 
the  charming  letters  which  Baroness  Dinati  wrote  him 
from  Paris,  so  far  away  now,  and  the  more  serious  mis- 
sives which  he  received  from  his  compatriots,  wishing 
him  to  utilize  for  his  country,  now  that  he  had  returned 
to  it,  his  superior  intelligence,  as  he  had  formerly  util- 
ized his  courage. 

"The  hour  is  critical,"  wrote  his  old  friends.  "An 
attempt  is  being  made  to  awaken  in  Hungary,  against 
the  Russians,  whom  we  like,  memories  of  combats 
and  extinct  hatreds,  and  that  to  the  profit  of  a  Ger- 

l3°4] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

man  alliance,  which  is  repugnant  to  our  race.  Bring  the 
support  of  your  name  and  your  valor  to  our  cause. 
Enter  the  Diet  of  Hungary.  Your  place  is  marked 
out  for  you  there  in  the  first  rank,  as  it  was  in  the  old 
days  upon  the  battlefield." 

Andras  only  smiled. 

"If  I  were  ambitious!"  he  said  to  Marsa.  Then  he 
added:  "But  I  am  ambitious  only  for  your  happiness." 

Marsa' s  happiness!  It  was  deep,  calm,  and  clear  as  a 
lake.  It  seemed  to  the  Tzigana  that  she  was  dreaming 
a  dream,  a  beautiful  dream,  a  dream  peaceful,  sweet,  and 
restful.  She  abandoned  herself  to  her  profound  happi- 
ness with  the  trustfulness  of  a  child.  She  was  all  the 
more  happy  because  she  had  the  exquisite  sensation 
that  her  dream  would  have  no  awakening.  It  would 
end  in  all  the  charm  of  its  poetry. 

She  was  sure  that  she  could  not  survive  the  immense 
joy  which  destiny  had  accorded  her;  and  she  did  not 
rebel  against  this  decree.  It  seemed  to  her  right  and 
just.  She  had  never  desired  any  other  ending  to  her 
love  than  to  die  beloved,  to  die  with  Andras's  kiss  of 
forgiveness  upon  her  lips,  with  his  arms  about  her,  and 
to  sink  with  a  smile  into  the  eternal  sleep.  What  more 
beautiful  thing  could  she,  the  Tzigana,  have  wished  ? 

When  the  Prince's  people  saluted  her  by  that  title  of 
"Princess"  which  was  hers,  she  trembled  as  if  she  had 
usurped  it ;  she  wished  to  be  Marsa  to  the  Prince,  Marsa, 
his  devoted  slave,  who  looked  at  him  with  her  great  eyes 
full  of  gratitude  and  love.  And  she  wished  to  be  only 
that.  It  seemed  to  her  that,  in  the  ancient  home  of  the 
Zilahs,  the  birthplace  of  soldiers,  the  eyrie  of  eagles,  she 
20  [  3°5  ] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

was  a  sort  of  stranger;  but,  at  the  same  time,  she  thought, 
with  a  smile: 

"What  matters  it?     It  is  for  so  short  a  time." 

One  day  Prince  Zilah  received  from  Vienna  a  large 
sealed  envelope.  Minister  Ladany  earnestly  entreated 
him  to  come  to  the  Austrian  capital  and  present,  in  the 
salons  of  Vienna  and  at  the  imperial  court,  Princess 
Zilah,  of  whose  beauty  the  Austrian  colony  of  Paris 
raved. 

Marsa  asked  the  Prince  what  the  letter  contained. 

"Nothing.  An  invitation  to  leave  our  solitude.  We 
are  too  happy  here." 

Marsa  questioned  him  no  further;  but  she  resolved 
that  she  would  never  allow  the  Prince  to  take  her  to  that 
court  which  claimed  his  presence.  In  her  eyes,  she  was 
always  the  Tzigana;  and,  although  Menko  was  dead, 
she  would  never  permit  Zilah  to  present  her  to  people 
who  might  have  known  Count  Michel. 

No,  no,  let  them  remain  in  the  dear  old  castle,  he 
living  only  for  her,  she  breathing  only  for  him;  and  let 
the  world  go,  with  its  fascinations  and  its  pleasures,  its 
false  joys  and  its  false  friendships!  Let  them  ask  of 
life  only  what  truth  it  possesses;  an  hour  of  rest  between 
two  ordeals,  a  smile  between  two  sobs,  and — the  right 
to  love  each  other.  To  love  each  other  until  that  fatal 
separation  which  she  felt  was  coming,  until  that  end 
which  was  fast  advancing;  her  poor,  frail  body  being 
now  only  the  diaphanous  prison  of  her  soul.  She  did 
not  complain,  as  she  felt  the  hour  gently  approach  when, 
with  a  last  kiss,  a  last  sigh,  she  must  say  to  Andras, 
Adieu! 

[306] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

He,  seeing  her  each  day  more  pale,  each  day  more 
feeble,  was  alarmed ;  but  he  hoped,  that,  when  the  win- 
ter, which  was  very  severe  there,  was  over,  Marsa  would 
regain  her  strength.  He  summoned  to  the  castle  a  phy- 
sician from  Vienna,  who  battled  obstinately  and  skil- 
fully against  the  malady  from  which  the  Tzigana  was 
suffering.  Her  weakness  and  languor  kept  Marsa,  dur- 
ing the  cold  months,  for  whole  days  before  the  lofty, 
sculptured  chimney-piece,  in  which  burned  enormous 
logs  of  oak.  As  the  flames  gave  a  rosy  tinge  to  her 
cheeks  and  made  her  beautiful  eyes  sparkle,  Andras 
said  to  herself,  as  he  watched  her,  that  she  would  live, 
live  and  be  happy  with  him. 

The  spring  came,  with  the  green  leaflets  and  the  white 
blossoms  at  the  ends  of  the  branches.  The  buds  opened 
and  the  odors  of  the  rejuvenated  earth  mounted  subtly 
into  the  soft  air. 

At  her  window,  regarding  the  young  grass  and  the 
masses  of  tender  verdure  in  which  clusters  of  pale  gold 
or  silvery  white  gleamed  like  aigrettes,  Marsa  said  to 
Andras: 

"It  must  be  lovely  at  Maisons,  in  the  Vale  of  Violets! " 
but  she  added,  quickly: 

"We  are  better  here,  much  better!  And  it  even 
seems  to  me  that  I  have  always,  always  lived  here  in  this 
beautiful  castle,  where  you  have  sheltered  me,  like  a 
swallow  beaten  by  the  wind." 

There  was,  beneath  the  window,  stretching  out  like 
a  ribbon  of  silver,  a  road,  which  the  mica  dust  caused, 
at  times,  in  the  sunlight  to  resemble  a  river.  Marsa 
often  looked  out  on  this  road,  imagining  that  she  saw 

[307] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

again  the  massive  dam  upon  the  Seine,  or  wondering 
whether  a  band  of  Tzigani  would  not  appear  there 
with  the  April  days. 

"I  should  like,"  she  said  one  day  to  Andras,  "to  hear 
again  the  airs  my  people  used  to  play." 

She  found  that,  with  the  returning  spring,  she  was 
more  feeble  than  she  had  ever  been.  The  first  warmth 
in  the  air  entered  her  veins  like  a  sweet  intoxication, 
Her  head  felt  heavy,  and  in  her  whole  body  she  felt 
a  pleasant  languor.  She  had  wished  to  sink  thus  to 
rest,  as  nature  was  awakening. 

The  doctor  seemed  very  uneasy  at  this  languidnes£\ 
of  which  Marsa  said: 

"It  is  delicious!" 

He  whispered  one  evening  to  Andras: 

«It  is  grave!" 

Another  sorrow  was  to  come  into  the  life  of  the  Prince, 
who  had  known  so  many. 

A  few  days  after,  with  a  sort  of  presentiment,  he 
wrote  to  Yanski  Varhe*ly  to  come  and  spend  a  few 
months  with  him.  He  felt  the  need  of  his  old  friend; 
and  the  Count  hastened  to  obey  the  summons. 

Varhely  was  astonished  to  see  the  change  which  so 
short  a  time  had  produced  in  Marsa.  In  seven  months 
her  face,  although  still  beautiful,  had  become  emaciated, 
and  had  a  transparent  look.  The  little  hand,  white  as 
snow,  which  she  gave  to  Varhely,  burned  him;  the  skin 
was  dry  and  hot. 

"Well,  my  dear  Count,"  said  Marsa,  as  she  lay  ex- 
tended in  a  reclining-chair,  "what  news  of  General 
Vogotzine?" 

[308] 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

"The  General  is  well.  He  hopes  to  return  to  Russia. 
The  Czar  has  been  appealed  to,  and  he  does  not 
say  no." 

"Ah!  that  is  good  news,"  she  said.  "He  must  be 
greatly  bored  at  Maisons;  poor  Vogotzine!" 

"He  smokes,  drinks,  takes  the  dogs  out " 

The  dogs!  Marsa  started.  Those  hounds  would 
survive  Menko,  herself,  the  love  which  she  now  tasted 
as  the  one  joy  of  her  life!  Mechanically  her  lips  mur- 
mured, too  low  to  be  heard:  "Ortog!  Bundas!" 

Then  she  said,  aloud: 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  if  the  poor  General  can  return 
to  St.  Petersburg  or  Odessa.  One  is  best  off  at  home, 
in  one's  own  country.  If  you  only  knew,  Varhe*ly,  how 
happy  I  am,  happy  to  be  in  Hungary.  At  home!" 

She  was  very  weak.  The  doctor  made  a  sign  to  An- 
dras  to  leave  her  for  a  moment. 

"Well,"  asked  the  Prince  anxiously  of  Varhely,  "how 
do  you  think  she  is?" 

"  What  does  the  doctor  say  ?  "  replied  Yanski.  "Does 
he  hope  to  save  her?" 

Zilah  made  no  response.  Varhe*ly's  question  was  the 
most  terrible  of  answers. 

Ensconced  in  an  armchair,  the  Prince  then  laid  bare 
his  heart  to  old  Varhely,  sitting  near  him.  She  was 
about  to  die,  then!  Solitude!  Was  that  to  be  the  end 
of  his  life  ?  After  so  many  trials,  it  was  all  to  end  in 
this:  an  open  grave,  in  which  his  hopes  were  to  be 
buried.  What  remained  to  him  now  ?  At  the  age  when 
one  has  no  recourse  against  fate,  love,  the  one  love  of  his 
life,  was  to  be  taken  away  from  him,  Varhely  had  ad- 

[3°9] 


JULES  CLARETIE 

ministered  justice,  and  Zilah  had  pardoned — for  what  ? 
To  watch  together  a  silent  tomb;  yes,  yes,  what  re- 
mained to  him  now  ? 

"What  remains  to  you  if  she  dies?"  said  old  Yanski, 
slowly.  "There  remains  to  you  what  you  had  at  twenty 
years,  that  which  never  dies.  There  remains  to  you 
what  was  the  love  and  the  passion  of  all  the  Zilah 
princes  who  lie  yonder,  and  who  experienced  the  same 
suffering,  the  same  torture,  the  same  despair,  as  you. 
There  remains  to  you  our  first  love,  my  dear  Andras, 
the  fatherland!" 

The  next  day  some  Tzigana  musicians,  whom  the 
Prince  had  sent  for,  arrived  at  the  castle.  Marsa  felt 
invigorated  when  she  heard  the  czimbalom  and  the 
piercing  notes  of  the  czardas.  She  had  been  longing 
for  those  harmonies  and  songs  which  lay  so  near  her 
heart.  She  listened,  with  her  hand  clasped  in  that  of 
Andras,  and  through  the  open  window  came  the  "  March 
of  Rakoczy,"  the  same  strains  which  long  ago  had  been 
played  in  Paris,  upon  the  boat  which  bore  them  down 
the  Seine  that  July  morning. 

An  heroic  air,  a  song  of  triumph,  a  battle-cry,  the  gal- 
lop of  horses,  a  chant  of  victory.  It  was  the  air  which 
had  saluted  their  betrothal  like  a  fanfare.  It  was  the 
chant  which  the  Tzigani  had  played  that  sad  night 
when  Andras' s  father  had  been  laid  in  the  earth  of 
Attila. 

"I  would  like,"  said  Marsa,  when  the  music  had 
ceased,  "to  go  to  the  little  village  where  my  mother 
rests.  She  was  a  Tzigana  also!  Like  them,  like  me! 
Can  I  do  so,  doctor?" 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  Princess,  not  yet!  Later,  when  the  warm  sun 
comes." 

"Is  not  that  the  sun?"  said  Marsa,  pointing  to  the 
April  rays  entering  the  old  feudal  hall  and  making  the 
bits  of  dust  dance  like  sparks  of  gold. 

"It  is  the  April  sun,  and  it  is  sometimes  danger- 
ous for ' 

The  doctor  paused;  and,  as  he  did  not  finish,  Marsa 
said  gently,  with  a  smile  which  had  something  more 
than  resignation  in  it — happiness: 

"For  the  dying?" 

Andras  shuddered;  but  Marsa's  hand,  which  held 
his,  did  not  even  tremble. 

Old  Varhely's  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 

She  knew  that  she  was  about  to  die.  She  knew  it,  and 
smiled  at  kindly  death.  It  would  take  away  all  shame. 
Her  memory  would  be  to  Andras  the  sacred  one  of  the 
woman  he  adored.  She  would  die  without  being  held 
to  keep  that  oath  she  had  made  not  to  survive  her 
dreamed-of  happiness,  the  union  she  had  desired  and 
accepted.  Yes,  it  was  sweet  and  welcome,  this  death, 
which  taking  her  from  Andras's  love,  washed  away  all 
stain. 

She  whispered  in  his  ear  the  oft-repeated  avowal: 

"I  love  you!  I  love  you!  I  love  you!  And  I  die 
content,  for  I  feel  that  you  will  love  me  always.  Think 
a  moment!  Could  I  live?  Would  there  not  be  a 
spectre  between  you  and  your  Marsa?" 

She  threw  her  arms  about  him  as  he  leaned  over  the 
couch  upon  which  she  lay,  and  he  made  a  gesture  of 


JULES  CLARETIE 

denial,  unable  to  speak,  for  each  word  would  have  been 
a  sob. 

"Oh,  do  not  deny  it!"  she  said.  "Now,  no.  But 
later,  who  knows?  On  the  other  hand,  you  see,  there 
will  be  no  other  phantom  near  you  but  mine,  no  other 
image  but  mine.  I  feel  that  I  shall  be  always  near 
you,  yes,  always,  eternally,  my  beloved!  Dear  death! 
blessed  death !  which  renders  our  love  infinite,  yes, 
infinite.  Ah,  I  love  you!  I  love  you!" 

She  wished  to  see  once  more,  through  the  open  win- 
dow, the  sunny  woods  and  the  new  blossoms.  Behind 
those  woods,  a  few  leagues  away,  was  the  place  where 
Tisza  was  buried. 

"I  should  like  to  rest  by  her  side,"  said  the  Tzigana. 
"I  am  not  of  your  family,  you  see.  A  princess,  I? 
your  wife  ?  I  have  been  only  your  sweetheart,  my  An- 
dras." 

Andras,  whiter  than  the  dying  girl,  seemed  petrified 
by  the  approach  of  the  inevitable  grief. 

Now,  as  they  went  slowly  down  the  white  road,  the 
Tzigani  played  the  plaintive  melancholy  air  of  Janos 
Ne"meth,  that  air  impregnated  with  tears,  that  air  which 
she  used  so  often  to  play  herself — "The  World  holds 
but  One  Fair  Maiden!" 

And  this  time,  bursting  into  tears,  he  said  to  her,  with 
his  heart  breaking  in  his  breast: 

"Yes,  there  is  but  thee,  Marsa!  but  thee,  my  beloved, 
thee,  thee  alone!  Do  not  leave  me!  Stay  with  me! 
Stay  with  me,  Marsa,  my  only  love!" 

Then,  as  she  listened,  over  the  lovely  face  of  the  Tzig- 
ana passed  an  expression  of  absolute,  perfect  happi- 


PRINCE  ZILAH 

ness,  as  if,  in  Zilah's  tears,  she  read  all  his  forgiveness, 
all  his  love,  all  his  devotion.  She  raised  herself,  her 
little  hands  resting  upon  the  window-sill,  her  head 
heavy  with  sleep — the  deep,  dreamless  sleep — and 
held  up  her  sweet  lips  to  him :  when  she  felt  Andras's 
kiss,  she  whispered,  so  that  he  barely  heard  it: 

"Do  not  forget  me!  Never  forget  me,  my  darling!" 
Then  her  head  drooped  slowly,  and  fell  upon  the 
Prince's  shoulder,  like  that  of  a  tired  child,  with  a  calm 
sweet  smile  upon  her  flower-like  face. 

Like  the  salute  they  had  once  given  to  Prince  Sandor, 
the  Tzigani  began  proudly  the  heroic  march  of  free 
Hungary,  their  music  sending  a  fast  farewell  to  the  dead 
as  the  sun  gave  her  its  last  kiss. 

Then,  as  the  hymn  died  slowly  away  in  the  distance, 
soft  as  a  sigh,  with  one  last,  low,  heart-breaking  note, 
Andras  Zilah  laid  the  light  form  of  the  Tzigana  upon  the 
couch;  and,  winding  his  arms  about  her,  with  his  head 
pillowed  upon  her  breast,  he  murmured,  in  a  voice 
broken  with  sobs:  "I  will  love  only,  now,  what  you 
loved  so  much,  my  poor  Tzigana.  I  will  love  only  the 
land  where  you  lie  asleep." 


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